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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

A PISCATORIAL EPISODE.

BY JOSEPH C. NEAL, AUTHOR OF “CHARCOAL SKETCHES,” “IN AND ABOUT TOWN,” ETC.

Do you know Mrs. Brownstout? Everybody ought to know Mrs. Brownstout, for Mrs. Brownstout is in the market—not for sale—matrimonially speaking, her market was made long ago, and thence was derived the hearty appellation in which she rejoices. But as she occupies a conspicuous stand in the Fish Market, it is therefore presumed that everybody knows Mrs. Brownstout, who presides over the eventful destinies of shad and “pearch” and rockfish. That is, they know her “superfishially,” if we may be allowed the expression—in her commodities and in her outward appearance. When she passes by, they possess that degree of acquaintance with her exterior, to enable them to say “there goes Mrs. Brownstout,” and when she is seated at her stand—strange perversity of human nature, that it is always sure to sit at its stand!—people are positive that it is really Mrs. Brownstout. They recognize her by her gait, or by her costume, or by the piscatorial circumstances that surround her, which is about as much as the world in general knows of anybody. But the moral Mrs. Brownstout—the historical Mrs. Brownstout—the metaphysical Mrs. Brownstout—in short, the spiritual Mrs. Brownstout, as contra-distinguished from the apparent Mrs. Brownstout, who merely sells her fishes and takes your money, why what does society at large know of her? To the popular eye, she counts one in the sum total of humanity—a particle, and nothing more, in the vast conglomeration of the breathing universe. There is no perception of her mental identity—her intellectual idiosyncrasy attracts no attention—her past and her future are not inquired into—the Mrs. Brownstout retrospective, and the Mrs. Brownstout prospective, are equally disregarded, so that those ambitious of shad may find her to be the Mrs. Brownstout present, and thus the life of this estimable lady, like the lives of most of us, is narrowed down to the single point of immediate action—she and we are important only when it happens that our services are wanted. Our story—who has not got a story?—all our beings, doings and sufferings—our loves, hopes, successes and disappointments—all the trouble we have taken—the vexations we have endured—the triumphs we have achieved—who that encounters us in the street ever thinks of them, or reflects that each of us, as we pass on our winding way, is a volume of exquisite experiences, bound in calf, and well worthy of the closest perusal? Not one, of all the vast multitude which throngs the path; and hence it is that the world, collectively considered, is more distinguished by folly than by wisdom, learning nothing from the problems that have already been solved, but preferring to stumble onward from the beginning to the end, without borrowing a ray of light from the lanterns of those who have gone before.

But it has been resolved that Mrs. Brownstout shall not be sacrificed in this unceremonious manner—that some passages of her existence shall be snatched from oblivion, to amuse or instruct, as the case may be, at least a portion of those into whose hands our pages may be destined to fall. For Mrs. Brownstout, notwithstanding the energetic expression of the outward woman, has had her share of the disasters which seem inevitable to the susceptible temperament. She, too, has had her “trials of the heart,” and has found that though the poets seem to think that the sphere of young love’s gambols is chiefly located “among the roses,” he may yet exercise much potency when playing among the fishes. There is no scale armor against the darts of Cupid, and however steeled against such impressions the fair one may be, it is found, sooner or later, that she falls a prey to the tender passion.

It is an admitted fact, made evident by repeated observation, that this world is full of people—men people and women people—and that there are some among both, who set out and travel to a considerable distance on their earthly journey, upon the self-sustaining principle of celibacy, in a heroic effort not to be bothered with appendages, forgetting that, by a singular provision of nature, their proper condition is that of being bothered, and that, though they cannot see it, they must be bothered, to be at all comfortable. When we are alone we are not bothered; yet who likes to be alone?

said Selkirk, in default of the noise of children and his wife’s “alarms,” and Selkirk had learned that stagnation is a tiresome piece of work. A few of those, to whom reference is made, protract their restless and uneasy experiment of trying to live a quiet, unperplexed life, in which they are unquiet and very much perplexed, until the period for all human experiment is over. But the great majority fail for lack of nerve, and retract from a late discovery of the truth. Your Benedicks and Beatrices are almost sure to participate in the lot of those delineated by the first of dramatists—they are certain, somehow or other, to sink into the very calamity against which they formerly protested, and, in an unguarded hour, malignant fate delights to betray them to the common weakness.

To some extent, it was the fortune of Mrs. Brownstout to be a living illustration of the truth of this principle. In her maiden days, Miss Felicia Phinney laughed at the importunities of her numerous admirers. Having early gone into the fish business, she was confident in her own resources, and felt but little disposed to sink to a secondary place in the firm; and therefore “the gentlemen in waiting” each experienced a rebuff so sharply administered, that they were but little disposed to put themselves again in the way of being similarly astonished—as she had a method of conducting herself little calculated to mollify the disappointment experienced upon such occasions.

One night—it was a lovely night during a warm spell which succeeded a “cold snap,” in the early part of the spring—shad were selling at seventy-five cents, and were scarce at that—the moon shone sweetly upon the chimney-tops—the fire-plugs, which were lucky enough to be on the north side of the street, were tinged and tinted with lines of fairy silver, and the beams of softened light played with romantic effect upon the craggy sides and rough fastnesses of the curb-stones. A balmy southern breeze sighed through the streets and loitered round the corners in lazy luxury, whispering soft nonsense into the ears of the somnolent Charleys as they dreamily indulged in beatific visions of hot coffee and buckwheat cakes. All nature, including the brickbats and paving-stones, seemed to be wrapped in happy repose. The dogs barked not; even the cats had ceased to be vocal, and when any of these nocturnal disturbers appeared, it was plain from their stealthy step and subdued deportment, that they, too, felt the influence of the hour, and were unwilling to disturb the magnificent but tranquil harmony of the picture. It was, in short, a very fine night, particularly for the season, and though used by the undiscriminating many for the mere domestic purposes of snoring slumber, for which the coarser kind of night would answer just as well, yet this especial night was worthy of a more elevated fate, and it may be regarded as a great pity that such nights as these do not come in the daytime, when they would be better seen and more thoroughly admired—as sleep for the most part is imperative, and as there are but few of us who can manage its performance with our eyes open.

The main object of nights of this description, taking it for granted that every thing has its purpose, is to soften the heart—to render it flexible, malleable and susceptible to the softer impressions. The sun, for instance, melts the ice, and gives plasticity to many descriptions of candy; but its warmest rays are ineffective so far as the sympathies of the soul are concerned. No one is apt to fall in love at mid-day, or is much disposed to a declaration of passion at three o’clock of a sunny afternoon. Existence, at these periods, is, for the most part, altogether practical and unimaginative—good enough, no doubt, for buying and selling, and the eating of dinners; but not at all calculated to elicit the poetry of the affections. Whereas your moonlight evenings, when the frost is out of the ground, play Prometheus to sentiment, and, when the patient is not addicted to cigars and politics, both of which are antagonistical to this species of refinement, are sure to induce the bachelor to think that his condition is incomplete, and that there are means by which he might be made considerably happier. Thus it is that “our life is twofold”—that before tea we are one person and that after this interesting event we are somebody else.

It was on such an evening as we have attempted somewhat elaborately to describe, and it was under such a state of circumstances as we have incidentally alluded to, that Jack Spratte escorted Miss Felicia Phinney home from a tea party given among themselves by the fish-merchants. Jack Spratte had been as merry as a “grigge” throughout the entertainment. He had danced and he had sung—he had played “pawns” and “Copenhagen”—he had “sighed in a corner”—he had loved his love with a “C,” because she was “curious,” “crusty” or “crooked,” and so forth; but still Jack Spratte was heart whole—sound as a roach and as gracefully playful as an eel. Jack Spratte, in that blind confidence for which some men are remarkable, thought that the hook had not yet been baited which was destined to discompose the serenity of his gills, and that he was no catfish in a pool, devoted to an early fry. He little dreamed that celibacy is very “unsartin,” and that the cork lines and the lay-out lines, together with the dipsies, to say nothing of the gilling seines, the floats and the scoopnets, are always about, and that the most innocent nibble may result in a captivation.

Jack Spratte was strong in spirit when he stepped forth from the festive hall and crooked his dexter arm for the accommodation of Miss Felicia Phinney. He was jocose in his criticisms and observations for a square or two, and he reviewed the sports of the evening with a degree of humor which entitled him to rank with the wits of the time. But the night was one not to be resisted, even by Jack Spratte. He soon found that his chest—the chest enclosing his susceptibilities—was not a safety chest, not a fireproof asbestos chest, such as they roast under cords of blazing hickory, and submit without damage to vast conflagrations—but, on the contrary, though he never suspected it before, rather a weak chest—he had an oppression at the chest—in short, an affection of the chest, resulting in a palpitation of the heart—and his tongue became hard and dry, while there was a peculiar whizzing in his ears, as if the “Ice-breaker” were suddenly letting off steam. He stammered and he trembled.

“It can’t be the punch,” observed Jack Spratte, internally to himself; “it can’t be the punch that makes me such a Judy. I didn’t take enough of it for that—no, nor do I believe it is the fried oysters, for I put plenty of Cayenne pepper and mustard on ’em.”

No, Jack Spratte; it was neither the punch nor the oysters. They are wronged by the suspicion. It was the moonlight, mainly, and Miss Felicia Phinney in the second place. Amid the oysters, the punch and the blazing lamps—amid the joke, the laugh and the song—yea, even in the romp and in the redemption of pawns, Jack Spratte was safe. But a walk into the air proved fatal to him. The contrast was too much for his constitution, like an icy draught on an August day. Mirth often reacts into sensibility and the liveliest strain easily modulates into tenderness, just as extreme jocundity in a child is but the prelude to a flood of tears.

Jack Spratte acted without premeditation, and instinctively thought it wiser to begin afar off and to approach the subject by circumvallation. His first parallel was laid as follows:

“Miss Phinney,” said he, and his voice faltered as he spoke, “Miss Phinney, don’t you think that pearches is good, but that rockfishes is nicer—better nor sunnies?”

“Why, every goose knows that,” replied the lady, forgetting in her dislike to the professional allusion of Spratte’s remark, that geese are not particularly addicted to fish—“but what are you talking about sich things now for? We’re not setting on the end of the wharf, I’d like to know—are we?”

“No, we’re not,” hastily ejaculated Jack Spratte, who felt that the crisis of his fate was at hand; “but oh, Miss Phinney!—oh, Miss Felicia Phinney!—don’t trifle with my dearest affekshins—don’t keep me a danglin’ and a kickin’ with a big hook right through the gristle of my nose!”

The figurative style in which passion is apt to indulge, was strikingly manifest in Mr. Spratte’s mode of expression, but it may well be doubted whether operated in a way likely to promote his cause.

“Well, if ever I heerd of sich a tarnal fool!” was Miss Phinney’s unkind response; “Jack Spratte, I’ve not got hold of your nose yet, whatever I may do if you keep a cuttin’ up in this crazy sort of way, and as for your affekshins, take care there isn’t kicks about your other shins, which might hurt worse. Why—what—do—you—mean—anyhow?” continued she, with great emphasis and deliberation.

“I mean,” gasped Jack Spratte, so overcome by the contending emotions of love and fear that he was constrained to catch hold of a lamp post with his disengaged hand, to prevent himself from falling; “what I mean is this—you’ve got a nibble—yes, you’ve got a bite!—haul me up quick, thou loveliest of sitters in the Jarsey market—haul me up quick and stow me away in your basket. I’m hook’d and I am cotch’d—I’m your ‘catty’ forevermore. String me on a willow switch and lug me right away home!”

And Jack Spratte came near fainting upon the spot. His heart was laid open, a feat of amatory surgery which almost proved fatal to the daring lover.

Miss Felicia Phinney stepped back and gazed at him in undisguised amazement.

“You, Jack!” said she, “you’d better jine the teetotallers to-morrow, when you’ve got the headache. You must be snapt now—any man that acts so queer must be blue.”

“No, no, no!—I thought it was the punch myself, at first—but it’s not—it’s love—nothing but love—love without no water, no sugar, nor no nutmeg. They couldn’t make punch so strong—not even with racky-fortus stirred up with lignum-witey! Take pity on me, do! Mayn’t I hope, Phinney, mayn’t I hope? If you havn’t time to love me now, I can wait till you’re ready—yes, wait a hopin’.”

“You’re much more likely to be sent a hoppin’, Mr. Jack Spratte.”

“I only want to be on an understandin’ now—sort of engaged and sort of not engaged—just to know who I belong to.”

“Well, once for all, you wont belong to me, Jack Spratte, no how it could be fixed,” and Miss Felicia Phinney began to look enchantingly savage.

“Ah, now, don’t—the cork’s under—pull me up—ah, do!”

Jack Spratte sank upon his knees, with mouth open and upturned, as if he expected to be taken in hand immediately, and to have the hook gently and scientifically extracted, after the fashion of the experienced angler; but he was doomed to disappointment, and, to continue the metaphor, he may be regarded as a trout that broke the snood, and was left among the bulrushes to pine away, with the barb deep in its gullet—an image, to express this peculiar state of things, which is quite as poetical, true and striking as if allusion were had to the “stricken deer,” or to the “arrow-wounded dove.” Birds and quadrupeds have had a monopoly in this matter quite too long, and original sentiment must now prepare to dive among the fishes, for the sake of novel illustration.

“Jack Spratte,” said the ‘scornful ladye,’ “quit lookin’ like a porpus with the mumps—I’ve done with you—get up and tortle home the straightest way there is, and think yourself confounded lucky that you didn’t get spanked this very night. Marry you, indeed!—why, I wouldn’t marry a decent man, or a good lookin’ man, or a man with some sort of sense in his head; and nobody would ever tell sich a whacker as to say you are sich a one. Now do you hooey home, and don’t try to follow me, if you happen to know when a fool is well off;” and the ‘scornful ladye’ walked disdainfully away, with an air like Juno in her tantrums.

Jack Spratte remained upon his knees, as if converted into a perfect petrifaction. His eyelids never twinkled—he seemed not even to breathe—to all intents and purposes he was, for the time being, a defunct spratte, and it is presumed that to this day he would still have been found upon the same spot, like a spratte done in salt, if the watchman had not threatened to arrest him for being non com.

“Where is she?” exclaimed he wildly, as he started to his feet.

“Where is what?” said the nocturnal perambulator.

“Mrs. Spratte!” cried Jack, with a bewildered air, “Mrs. Jack Spratte, that is to be. I’m goin’ to be married, ain’t I?”

“I don’t know whether you’re goin’ to be married or not,” was the petulant reply; “but if you don’t go away, you’ll be like to spend the rest of the evening with the capun at the watch’us. It’s not my business to tell people when they’re goin’ to be married, whether they’re sprattes or gudgeons.”

“Yes, that’s it—I am—I am a gudgeon!” said Spratte, smiting his forehead and then darting away.

“A werry flat sort of a fish, that chap is,” said Charley, with a sage expression.

Jack Spratte went directly home, just as he had been bid—he went home, not with any definite purpose in view—he did not want to sleep, he did not want to eat, he did not want to sit down—he merely experienced an undefined “want to go home,” peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon race when they do not exactly know what to do with themselves, (all other people go out, under similar circumstances,) and therefore home he went, very much after the fashion of a livery-stable horse, when the gig has been demolished or the rider left in some friendly ditch. He came home like a whirlwind, but yet his feelings were those which may be supposed to belong to the minor vegetables—the most diminutive of the potato tribe. He had not been “strung upon a willow switch”—he, Jack Spratte, was enrolled among the “great rejected”—a goodly company enough, but he derived no consolation from the thought.

Jack Spratte vowed vengeance!—Jack Spratte kept his word!!

Many other lovers shared the fate which had befallen the unhappy Spratte, and, to the general eye, it certainly did appear as if Felicia Phinney was to realize her boast, that “if other gals had to take up with husbands, she, at least, could do without a master,” though it was perhaps clear enough that, in any event, the master was likely to be but a “negative quantity.”

Miss Felicia Phinney waxed onward in years, and, as her years increased, her energy and her commanding spirit seemed to gather new strength. She became omnipotent in the market-house, and wo to those who dared to undersell, or tried too perseveringly to cheapen her commodities.

“Why now, aunty, is that the lowest?” was sometimes, and not unfrequently, the question.

“Sattinly—what d’ye ’spect?—Fishes is fishes now, and shads is skurse,” would be the tart reply, and the saleswoman would slap a pair of shad together until they resounded through the arches of the market like the report of a swivel—“skurse enough, and the profits being small, them as prices ought to buy—that’s the principle I go upon,” and the fishes would again be brought in contact, to the great discomposure of all who happened to be within hearing.

In appeals of this sort, the maiden fish-woman seldom failed to be successful—especially when the customer happened to be rather unpracticed in the affairs of the market—for there was something peculiarly imposing in her tone and attitude as she held a fish by the tail in each hand. Mark Antony himself was not more persuasive over the remains of the slain Cæsar, than was Miss Felicia Phinney when haranguing over her “skurse shad.”

“Ha! ha! it’s well she bought something,” would be the after remark, “for if there’s any thing I hate to do, it is being obligated and necessitated to flop a customer over the head with a shad—’specially if it’s a lady, with a bran-new, tearin’ fine bonnet—a hard flop with a shad is sudden death and run for the coroner, on spring fashions. But when people prices, they’ve got to buy. I go for principles, and if they wont buy, why, flopped they ought to be and flopped they must be, or our rights will soon be done for. People are gettin’ so sassy now, that by’n’by, if they’re not learnt manners, they’ll take our shad for nothin’ and make us carry ’em home to boot.”

There certainly appears to be a retributive principle in nature which, sooner or later, victimizes us as we have victimized others—a species of moral lex talionis, which returns the ingredients of our chalice to our own lips. No man ever made a greater “bull” than he who manufactured a brazen representative of that animal, that Phalaris might roast his victims in it and hear their bellowing cries—for the ingenious artificer was himself the earliest victim, and roared like a calf. The original hangman does not live in story. It is but fair, however, to infer that he died by the rope, and either strangled himself or had that friendly office performed for him by another. All who introduced refinements in the application of the axe—that most aristocratic of executive instruments—have themselves been subjected to a different process of “shortening” from any set down in Miss Leslie’s “Domestic Cookery,” and probably the inventor of solitary confinement and the “Pennsylvania system of prison discipline,” was she of the “mistletoe bough”—the identical lady of the “old oak chest.” The retributive principle goes even further than this. There are retributive husbands and retributive wives—such at least do they seem to be—whose office appears to consist in being a penance for previous jiltings, previous flirtations and antecedent insults of all kinds, to the blind little gentleman who primitively sports with bow and arrow, disdaining recourse to the use of fire-arms. In this sense, Mr. Brownstout was a retribution—a retribution for all the past offences of Miss Felicia Phinney. He had been ambushed far onward in her course through time; so that when she thought the past forgotten, and when she had measurably forgotten the past, the retributive husband might, like a steel trap, be sprung upon her. Whether Brownstout—Mr. Brownstout—had been created and trained for this especial purpose, does not appear. He was but a little fellow, it is true—in this respect his person and his name were in evident contradiction to each other; but he was an ample sufficiency to bring about the purposes for which he was intended.

There is, they say, such a thing as love at first sight—an instantaneous attack, resembling somewhat the unexpected assault of cholera in Calcutta or thereabouts, where the victim, doubled up, at once falls to the ground. This spontaneous combustion is not perhaps so frequent in modern days as when the world was younger. Time and change, atmospherical or otherwise, modify all disorders, and by these influences, love, like the lightning, has, to a considerable extent, fallen under the control of science, and has ceased to be so rash, sudden and explosive as it was; while the actual cases do not exhibit symptoms so imminent and dangerous. Young gentlemen nowadays are not nearly so apt, according to the popular phrase, to be “struck all of a heap,” as their grandfathers and their paternal predecessors are represented to have been. The Fire-King thought little of remaining in the oven until the dinner was baked—a feat at which precedent ages would have looked aghast—but experiment has since proved that the generality of our kind are salamanders to the same extent, and a similar truth appears to have been demonstrated as to the capacity existing in the present era, to withstand the fire of the brightest eyes that ever beamed from a side-box at the opera. Who ever hears that Orlando has shot himself for love with a percussion pistol, or with one of your six barrelled, repeating detonators? No—that fashion expired before the flint lock was superseded, and when the steam engine came roaring along, the lover ceased to sigh, and, instead of suffering himself to be pale and disheveled, he looked in the mirror and brushed his whiskers; and as hearts are not knocked about so violently as they were at the period of small swords and chapeaus, it follows as a natural consequence that they are very rarely broken past repair.

Miss Felicia Phinney, it may be, from having so long evaded the “soft impeachment,” was finally afflicted somewhat after the fashion of our ancestors. Her constitution not being accustomed—perhaps we should say seasoned—to such shocks, “took it hard.” An individual of her “timber” could not be expected to “pine,” but when Mr. Brownstout first insinuatingly and delicately asked the price of a shad—in those very tones which cause lovers’ words to sound “so silver sweet by night”—she felt that her hour was come—and that her “unhoused free condition must be put in circumscription and confine.” Whether she was affected by the force of contrast, in joining which, as Mr. Sheridan Knowles has taken occasion to remark, “lieth love’s delight,” or whether Mr. Brownstout only chanced to present himself at the propitious moment, is a problem which the parties themselves, unaccustomed as they are to such analysis, could not undertake to solve. It is true that Felicia Phinney was somewhat tall and not a little muscular, and that Mr. Brownstout had no pretensions either to length or to any unusual degree of latitude in form. She was bold, determined and rather Stentorian in her vocalities—he was mild, submissive and plausible when it was necessary—both serpentine and dovelike.

Brownstout saw that he had made an impression. Every one intuitively knows when he has been thus fortunate, and he justly thought that if he had been so successful when only asking the price of a fish, results must ensue proportionably greater if he were actually to become the purchaser of the article; for, if a mere tap at the door is productive of notable consequences, a regular peal with the knocker cannot fail to rouse the entire household. Now Brownstout, who at that period was “a tailor by trade,” but one who had a soul so much above buttons that he could but rarely be persuaded to sew any of them on, had a tolerably clear perception of the fact that it would be rather a comfortable thing—a nice thing, indeed—to hang up his hat in a house of his own, and to possess a wife gifted with the faculty of making money—a sublunary arrangement of surpassing loveliness, provided the wife be duly impressed with a sense of its symmetrical proportions, and has the good taste not to recur to the subject too often. On the one hand, he saw—“in his mind’s eye, Horatio”—enchanting visions of ninepins, shuffleboard and other exercises of that sort, made still more agreeable by proper allowances of ale and tobacco—while on the other hand, a sufficient basis—“a specie basis”—for all these absorbing delights was evident in a stand at the mart piscatorial, femininely attended. There was a beautiful harmony in this aspect of the case, that came straight home to his bosom. It combined dignity with utility—poetry with practice—the sweet with the useful, in such architectural grace, that it was not in his nature to abandon the prospect. He had what few men have—a scheme of life before him, which dovetailed into all his peculiarities of disposition, and might be pronounced perfect. It is not then to be wondered at that Thais at Alexander’s side, on the memorable evening when the mail brought the election returns from Persia, was not more soul-subduing than Miss Felicia Phinney seemed in the eyes of the enraptured Brownstout.

It was not in his way, to be sure. He was not altogether accustomed to such matters, but as he was aware of the truth of the axiom, “nothing venture, nothing have,” he ultimately made the desperate resolve to buy a fish, and—reckless man!—to pay for it!—to buy, if necessary to the completion of his great design, several successive fishes and to pay for them, and he saw but one difficulty in the way. His road was clear enough so far as the mere purchase was involved, but it was the second clause in the programme of the operation which somewhat puzzled Mr. Brownstout, as indeed it often puzzles financiers of a more elevated range. He might buy, but, like Macbeth, he did not know how to “trammel up the consequence,” which was to pay. It is true that a certain practical philosopher has decided that “base is the slave who pays,” but there are times when circumstances so combine against the principles of “free trade” that to pay is unavoidable. Mr. Brownstout felt his situation to be a case in point, and he was sadly puzzled as to the mode in which this monetary obstacle was to be surmounted, until he remembered that, in default of assets, there is a mode of hypothecating one’s hopes and prospects so that they may be “coined to drachmas.” He resolved to borrow on his personal liability, secured by the “collateral” of his chances in matrimony, of course promising a premium proportionate to the risk. For the means of obtaining a half dollar’s worth of fish, he was, at a future day, to return a full dollar, which is not unreasonable, considering the shadowy nature of prospective dollars, dependent on contingencies—dollars so situated are very uncertain dollars—dollars which are “to be or not to be,” as the fates may determine. When any one says “I’ll owe you a dollar,” it often requires acute ears to detect even the approaching jingle thereof.

“A sweet morning, Miss Phinney!—a lovely morning—quite circumambient and mellifluous, if I may use the expression. Such mornings as this cause us bachelors to feel like posts in a flower garden—we may look on, to be sure, but no rosies and posies are blooming for us—we are nothing but interlopers and don’t belong to the family—solitary and forlorn in the middle of the crowd. More juvenile people, such as you, Miss Phinney, don’t realize those things, but for me!”—and Brownstout assumed an expression peculiarly plaintive, as he stood in the market-house vis-à-vis to the shad basket.

“I minds my own business, Mr. Brownstout, and never trades in rosies and posies,” was the gentle reply; “the beautifulest mornings, to my thinking, is them when people bites sharp and are hungry for fish. Hyperflutenations and dictionary things are not in my way;” but Miss Phinney was evidently pleased with Brownstout’s “hyperflutenations and dictionary things,” and liked them none the worse probably because they were not very clearly understood.

“Your are right, madam—perfectly right. When people have a taste for fish they are generally fond of fish, and are likely to show their good sense by buying fish. I’m very much attached to fish myself. How are fish to-day?”

“Why, pretty well, I thank you, Mr. Brownstout; how do you find yourself?”

This being the first attempt at a joke ever essayed by Miss Felicia Phinney, she was quite pleased with the daring, and she laughed—rather rustily, it must be confessed, but she did laugh; and Brownstout, not being deficient in tact, he laughed too. If you desire to win people’s hearts, always laugh at their jokes, whether good, bad or indifferent—more heartily, in fact, at those which are bad and indifferent than at the good ones. It proves your benevolence. The good joke can take care of itself and walk alone, while the others are rickety and require cherishing, and are also, on this account, the greater favorites with the author of their being.

Brownstout laughed—“ha—ha—hugh!” and Miss Phinney laughed—“he—he—haw!” Pretty well on both sides. This intermingling of laughs often leads to an intermingling of sighs, if care be taken not to laugh too much, for a lover habitually jocose seldom prospers with the fair, however deep the undertow of his sentimentality. Brownstout was aware of this, and subsided betimes into a more amiable ’havior of the visage.

He finally bought his fish, and as they dangled from his hand, so did he dangle after Miss Phinney, and the combined perseverance of dangling and purchasing at last brought him to the haven of his hopes. They were married, and Miss Felicia Phinney was duly metamorphosed into Mrs. Brownstout.

But who had urged this ill-starred attachment to so dire a catastrophe!—who but Jack Spratte—the Varney Spratte—the Iago Spratte—the worse than Schedoni Spratte!—Spratte, the rejected—Spratte, the despised!! He had never forgotten, though long years had elapsed, the outrage to his tender emotions on that memorable night of “Copenhagen and fried oysters”—of love and despair—when the expression of his lacerated feelings had been imputed to the effects of punch—when, in spite of assurances that “the hook was through the gristle of his nose,” the obdurate fair had refused to “pull him up.” Had Jack Spratte been oblivious of his wrongs? No—they had lain within his bosom as icy as a cold potato, while the sweet cider of his affections had passed through all the grades of fermentation—acetous and so forth—until they had become vinegar, sharper than the north wind—pepper vinegar, to which “picalillies” are not a circumstance. The merry Spratte, in a single night, had been converted into a pike of the fiercest description. He frequented the shuffleboard—he early discovered the secret of Mr. Brownstout’s attachment—he treated to slings and egg nog until he ascertained the relative position of parties, and all necessary particulars—he confirmed Brownstout’s wavering resolution—he lent him the money to buy shad—and he, even he, stood groomsman at the ceremony, covering his procrastinated triumph in deceptive smiles, and eating cake as if his heart were filled with sympathetic emotions.

Why did Jack Spratte do this?—why?—because he knew Mr. Brownstout’s sordid views—his nefarious designs—his intention to frequent the ninepin alley and the shuffleboard, while his wife sold fish in the market—his resolution never to work again. It was Jack Spratte’s Revenge!! Diabolical Spratte!!!

The results which Jack Spratte had anticipated, as some compensation for his sufferings, were not of slow development. “Domestic uneasiness” gathered like a cloud around the hearthstone of the Brownstouts; for Brownstout, being busily engaged in the pursuit of happiness, was not only absent the greater part of the day, but rarely made his appearance at all until one or two o’clock in the morning; and, when he did come, his first visitation was to his wife’s professional check apron, to obtain an additional supply of the sinews of war.

“Husbands are luxuries, my dear, and must be paid for accordingly,” was his only reply to words of remonstrance, and when the aforesaid pocket was put out of sight, he broke things, by way of demonstration, until it was again brought within reach.

Mrs. Brownstout, in the warmth of her affection, for a time tried kindness as a means of reform—she winked at her husband’s idleness and made him a weekly allowance; but his ideas on the subject of gentlemanly expenditure developed themselves too rapidly to be confined within the bounds of such limits, and he had secret recourse to the pocket, until the deficiencies thus occasioned became too palpable to be concealed. The cash would not balance, and, naturally enough, the patience of Mrs. Brownstout then kicked the beam. She “flopped” her little husband—not with a shad, as might be expected, but with a shovel applied in its latitude, “broadside on.”

The next morning, silence reigned through the hapless domicile of the Brownstouts. The masculine owner of that name had disappeared, and with him the pocket, check apron and all. Night after night he came not, and Mrs. Brownstout grew meagre and dejected.

“I’m a lone widder feller,” sighed she, “or just as bad. When you ain’t got your husband, it’s pretty near the same thing as if you hadn’t none. But men is men all the world over, and you can’t help it no how. When Brownstout fust came a courtin’ to me, you’d a thought butter wouldn’t a melted in his mouth, he pretended to be so sniptious. He swore he loved me; but now, just because of a little difficulty about the shovel, he’s shinned it like a whitehead, with my pocket full of change and all the spoons he could lay his hands on.”

And so Mrs. Brownstout one evening sallied forth in search of the delinquent.

The bar was in full practice—clients and “cases” flocked around it in abundance. Four “hands” with their sleeves rolled up could scarcely, with all their quickness, mix the “fancy drinks” fast enough to supply the demand, so numerous were the applications for refreshment. Corks were popping—the bottles gurgled—clouds of cigar smoke were “rolling dun,” and men had to speak at the very stretch of their voices to be heard over the thunder of the balls, as they went trolling along the board and crashing among the ninepins, anon booming back adown the trough. There, amidst the crowd, divested of his coat and waistcoat, to give free play to muscular action, was Brownstout—the faithless Brownstout!—in his glory. His cigar and his half-empty tumbler stood upon an adjacent ledge—in the enthusiasm of the hour, he had not only bared his arms, but likewise girt his body with a bandana, and tucked his trowsers into his boots. There was a streak of chalk upon his face, which gave its general flush of excitement a still more ruddy tinge.

It was his throw!

Nicely did Brownstout poise the ponderous ball, which rested on his right hand, while the forefinger of the left remained for an instant upon its upper hemisphere. He paused a moment for an inspiring sip and a preliminary puff—and then—the living statues never displayed more grace in attitude—every head projected as if their owners would penetrate into futurity, and see results before they were accomplished. Brownstout bowed himself to the task, scanning the interval with that eye of skill which so surely betokens victory, and then, with a slide like that of the feathered Mercury—whizz!—bang!—slam!—boom!—bump!—smash!!—crash!!!

“Another set-up!” is the general cry, and Brownstout, with a back-handed sweep across his countenance, which scarcely concealed the half-suppressed smile of conscious genius beaming in every feature—though he would have looked indifferent had that been possible—turned himself once more to his tumbler and to his cigar, like one who felt that “he had done the state some service and they knew it.” He had reason to be proud. Not only had he achieved victory for his “pard’ners” and gained the refreshment tickets—good for a drink and trimmings—consequent thereon—but he had also secured several bets, couched under the mysterious phrase of being for “something all round.” Indeed, it is not certain that an “oyster supper for six” was not also dependent on the result, which Brownstout had mentally resolved should be an oyster supper for one on each of six specified nights, and not an oyster supper for six on one night; the last being a common arrangement, but regarded by him as at war with true economy, and as most “wasteful and ridiculous excess.”

After the first burst of exultation was over, the victors seemed suddenly to become athirst—they smacked their lips, and made many other conventional signs expressive of that condition, jogging the elbows of the defeated and asking, very significantly, “what shall it be?”—a sound which awakened the smiles of “the bar,” the members whereof began scientifically to handle the decanters chiefly affected by Mr. Brownstout’s “brave associates—partners of his toil”—for had not he gained the decisive “set-up?”

“Set up!”—unlucky words! Well said Napoleon to the Abbe De Pradt, that from the sublime to the ridiculous there is but one step. It was so with the emperor. He and Brownstout both found that often when we have gained a “set-up,” we are nearest to a “set-down.”

“Out of the way!” shrieked a well known voice, the owner of which was endeavoring to force a passage through the crowd—“I’m sure he’s here—he’s always here, and I’m come to fetch him!”

“The old woman!” exclaimed Brownstout, in trembling dismay, as the tumbler slipped from his nerveless hand and the cigar rolled into the folds of his bosom.

“An old woman!” repeated the gentlemen of the bar, letting fall their “muddlers.”

“His old woman!” re-echoed the ninepin players, aghast.

“Brownstout’s old woman!” was the general chorus.

“Run, Browney!”

“Hop, Stoutey!!”

“Make yourself scarce!”

Too late, alas! were these kindly hints from those who would have saved their beloved friend from the infliction of domestic discipline. Brownstout saw that retreat was impossible. His wife’s broad hand was upon him. He fell back breathless with terror—it is presumed that reminiscences of the shovel danced athwart his brain.

Like another Mephistopheles, Jack Spratte appeared upon the scene. The author of mischief is always in at the catastrophe.

“You area precious set of warmint!” said Mrs. Brownstout, as she glared fiercely around—“who am I to thank for deludin’ my old man to sich places as this, to waste his time and my money on fools and foolery!”

“Thank me!” exclaimed Jack Spratte, hysterically, “me!—me! to whom you guv’ the mitten!—me who got the bag to hold!—me, whose nose was put out of jint!—me, whose young hopes was drownded in cold water almost before their eyes was opened!”

The “adsum qui feci” of the Latin poet was never more finely “done into English,” though it may well be questioned whether the atrocious Spratte had ever heard of Nisus and Euryalus.

The excitement became intense—the crowd huddled around—the boys rushed from the pins to listen to the denouement—and one thirsty soul at the bar showed his interest in the matter, by hastily swallowing the contents of three other gentlemen’s glasses, to fortify himself for the occasion, after which he also hurried to the centre.

“It was me that done it all!” continued Spratte, gesticulating spasmodically—“I know’d he’d break your heart!—I know’d he’d hook your money!—I know’d he’d keep always goin’ out and never coinin’ home agin! If it hadn’t been for me he’d not have married you—but now I’m revenged—now I’m happy—now I’m—ha! ha! hugh!” and Jack Spratte sprung high into the air, and, on his return to earth, spun round three times, and, exhausted by emotion, fell prostrate, upsetting a table upon which stood three “brandies” and one whiskey punch.

Mrs. Brownstout dropped her hands and suffered the almost inanimate form of her husband to go lumbering to the earth, while she stood petrified with despair at this terrible revelation. Her heart was congealed, and every bystander was stricken with horror at Spratte’s having proved to be such a “debaushed” fish!—all were moved inwardly, except the utilitarian who had imbibed the other gentlemen’s liquor, and he seized on the chance to move outwardly, that he might sneak away without discharging the dues for that which he had ordered himself.

There were no more ninepins that night—the moral influence was such that the boys put out the lights without being told to do so—if they had not, indeed, it is probable the lights would have gone out of themselves. Mr. and Mrs. Brownstout went home in a cab—they were too much overcome to walk. Jack Spratte recovered by slow degrees—the three brandies and the whiskey punch, in which he was immersed, probably saved his life—but Jack Spratte never smiled again, no matter how good the joke. His bosom was seared—his heart was like a dried cherry several seasons old, and so he became a drummer in the marines, delighting only in the beating of tattoo and reveille, as two of the most misanthropic of employments—the one sending men to bed, while the other forces them to get up. He was severe upon these points of war, and it was noticed that he was always a little before the time in the performance of each. Such are the spiteful effects of blighted affections, which give acerbity even to a musician! But Jack Spratte’s revenge had failed—most signally failed. After the events of the ninepin alley, Brownstout was an altered man. He might justly be spoken of as a great moral re-action. Stung to the quick at having been made an instrument of revenge—a mere drumstick of malignity, he burnt all the tickets in his possession, “good,” as they were, “for refreshments at the bar”—he returned the check apron pocket to his wife, though perhaps it would have been more acceptable if any thing had remained in it. The spoons, however, were past redemption; but what are spoons in comparison with matrimonial comfort—what are spoons when one’s husband works in the daytime and never goes out in the evenings? Mrs. Brownstout was a happy woman, and never even hinted at “spoons,” except when she imagined that her husband’s thoughts might perhaps be straying toward ninepins. That word always brought him straight, and she but rarely had occasion to say “spoons,” except on the Fourth of July or about the Christmas holidays. As for the bibulous individual before alluded to, the poetic catastrophe to which he was an accidental witness made him so dry that he has been busy ever since in a vain endeavor to quench his thirst. He thinks of hiring himself out as a dam for any moderate sized river, and would do so, if the navigation company were liberal enough to put a drop of something in the water, just to take the chill off and to correct its crudities.

And such is the end of “Jack Spratte’s Revenge.”

Jack Spratte’s Revenge in a nine-pin alley.

BY EPES SARGENT.

“But, speaking of dancing, did you ever dance the zapateo?” asked my companion.

“I have never ventured to attempt it,” was my reply.

“Then can you never have been in Cuba.”

“That does not follow; for I was there once when the cholera and yellow fever were both raging. There was little dancing then, except such as delirium might prompt.”

“The zapateo,” said Smith, for it was he, a chance acquaintance, whom I encountered the other day on board one of the Sound steamboats, with whom I was conversing—“the zapateo bears the same relation to other dances in Cuba that the Fourth of July does to other holidays in the United States—or the canvasback to other birds on the Potomac—or the salmon to our other fish—or the Mississippi to our other rivers—or Henry Clay to——”

“That will do, Smith; that will do in the way of comparison,” interrupted I. “I think I understand what you would say. Pray proceed with your description.”

“Every body in Cuba,” said he—“that is, every body who is any body—plays on the guitar, as a matter of course, and dances the zapateo.”

“But what is the zapateo?”

“It is simply a sort of backward and forward shuffle, danced to a quick and spirited measure, and in which two at a time only engage, keeping it up until one or the other is tired, when his or her place is taken by some one of the company. At first sight one would think it was quite an easy matter to catch the step, but in reality it requires long study and frequent practice to accomplish it with even tolerable grace. The feet follow the music so nicely that as they strike the floor you could catch the tune from the shuffle alone; and the best dancers introduce varieties, which, like the shakes and flourishes in singing, so disguise the original movement with ornamental additions that you would hardly recognize to what family it belonged. Well, to this dance the Creoles seem devoted body and soul. No entertainment is complete without it. For whole nights and days they will dance it without any apparent relaxation of enthusiasm, without any sign of fatigue. To surpass all competitors in dancing the zapateo is glory enough for any Creole lady or gentleman. Nor is excellence of this kind wholly without its reward. It is customary for a looker-on, if he be peculiarly charmed with the dancing of a lady, to put his straw hat upon her head, or throw his handkerchief over her arm, afterward redeeming it with a present of some kind, which, according to his generosity, may be a silver rial, or a gold ounce. I have seen a lady almost covered with hats and handkerchiefs in the course of a dance. As soon as it is ended, she holds up the article for the owner to claim. He, perhaps, says, ‘da una vuelta’—she whirls round him, going once more through the familiar steps, then stops and receives the gift of her admirer. Many a time have I known a beautiful young Creole carry from a hall a hundred dollars in gold, tied up in the corner of her handkerchief, the guerdon of her superior dancing. To refuse a gift on such an occasion would be an affront to the gentleman who made it.”

“But is there no reward for the gentlemen who excel, as well as for the ladies?”

“Occasionally the ladies amuse themselves by presenting a sugar-plum or an orange, but it is rare that the male dancers receive gold or silver. Sometimes when a man dances extremely awkwardly, hats and handkerchiefs are showered upon him in mockery. He is obliged to receive them and offer them for redemption, and then his gifts are found to consist of half-smoked cigars, bits of orange peel, nut-shells, and all the worthless and despised things that can be found.”

“Is not the individual, thus made sport of, ever roused to anger?” I inquired.

“Not if he be a true Creole, and to the manner born,” said my companion. “I remember an instance, however, where a thoughtlessness was the means of involving a fellow countryman in a scrape that threatened to prove serious. Dayton and I had been dining on board one of our national ships, then in the harbor of Havana. We had both partaken pretty freely of the super-excellent cliquot which our friend, Lieutenant B——, had provided, and we were both primed for any frolic which might present itself. As we were returning to our lodgings somewhat late in the evening, the sound of music and dancing arrested our attention, and lent its aid to the champaign in kindling our blood. By a consentaneous impulse we entered the building where the fun seemed to be going on, and, on paying a few rials at the door, were admitted into a hall where a large company were assembled, grouped around a couple who were dancing the perpetual zapateo. Dayton, who had never before seen the dance, seemed to regard it now with intense interest, and I perceived from an occasional shuffling of his feet that he was eager to try them in this new and fascinating measure. ‘By Jove, I think I can go it,’ said he, putting both hands upon his knees and lowering his head to scrutinize more closely the steps made by the dancers. The spirit of mischief induced me to reply in accents of encouragement, ‘To be sure you can dance it, Dayton. It is quite simple. Once get into it, and the music will carry you on, without your troubling yourself about the steps?’ ‘And why shouldn’t I trouble myself about the steps?’ asked he, ‘they are simple enough. Any fool could learn them in five minutes. It is but patting the floor with your feet, thus—then coming forward with a sort of a hop and a step, thus—then back again, as that character with the red silk streamers to his jacket is doing—and there you have the whole mystery.’ From the grotesque movements which my companion made, as he attempted to imitate the steps, I was convinced that he knew no more of the dance than a bear did of waltzing, but the opportunity of making some fun was too choice a one for me to let it slip by unimproved. ‘Bless me, my dear fellow,’ exclaimed I, ‘how the deuce have you contrived to catch the trick of it so soon? Why, man, you must have practiced it before.’ ‘Never saw it before this evening, upon my honor,’ said Dayton, earnestly, quite elated at the discovery of his new talent for dancing the zapateo. Here the gentleman who was then executing the dance, and who was one of the most accomplished dancers on the island, comprehended a nod which I made to him, and, ceasing, suddenly tapped poor Dayton on the shoulder, and signified to him that if he wished to dance a place was now vacant. The lady kept on with the dance, notwithstanding the withdrawal of her partner. Dayton’s gallantry, pride and ambition were all strongly appealed to, and, handing me his hat, he boldly advanced, and, bowing to the lady, took up the vacated position.”

Here a momentary interruption was produced in Smith’s narrative, by the ringing of the supper bell. After we were seated at the table, he proceeded.

“Let me see. I left Dayton just entering upon the dance. The music all this while did not discontinue for a moment; and, striking an attitude which reminded me forcibly of one of Jim Crow’s preliminary flourishes, Dayton commenced a species of shuffling which he believed in his heart to be the zapateo. For some moments, respect for the feelings of a stranger kept the spectators silent, but when he persevered in his grotesque and indescribable saltations, now apparently combining in his mind dim recollections of the sailor’s hornpipe with emulatory imitations of the popular styles of Master Diamond and Mr. Rice—the general disposition to laugh could no longer be repressed. It burst forth in one loud, protracted shout. There had been much laughing before he commenced, and Dayton did not for a moment imagine that he was now the subject of it any more than he was before. And when the hats and handkerchiefs began to pour in upon him, and the ladies themselves clapped their little hands and cried bravo, he seriously believed that he had made an impression which even Fanny Ellsler could not transcend. At length, the uproar became so great that the director of the ball, who seemed to think that the joke had been carried quite far enough, interfered to bring it to a termination. Tapping Dayton on the shoulder, he exclaimed, ‘Pera, hombre! Pera, hombre!’ (Stop, man!) My friend did not understand a word of Spanish, and turning to me with a face full of innocent inquiry, he asked: ‘What does he say?’ ‘He says that you dance the zapateo superbly,’ said I, while the tears ran down my cheeks from suppressed laughter. Encouraged by this, poor Dayton proceeded with increased energy, performing some of the most extraordinary vaultings I had ever seen off the stage. Again the spectators burst into a roar of laughter, and again the director, with a grave face, tapped the dancer upon the shoulder, repeating the exclamation, ‘Pera, hombré, pera!’ ‘What does he say now?’ asked Dayton. ‘He says he never saw the zapateo danced better,’ returned I, half suffocating with the effort to appear serious. Overjoyed at his success, Dayton resumed his antics; but at that moment his partner withdrew, and, as no lady ventured forward to take her place, I persuaded him to stop. Now came the ceremony of redeeming the hats and handkerchiefs, with which his admirers had laden him. The owner of the first article held up redeemed it with a copper cent. The next gave an old kid glove, so stained and dirty that it was difficult to guess what its original color might have been. The next gave a wilted banana, black and dry. The next, a small piece of brown paper. The next, an iron nail, very rusty. The next, a sucked orange; and the last, the smallest possible end of a smoked cigar. Poor Dayton had not been prepared for a joke of this kind. I had given him to understand that good dancers frequently were presented with doubloons, but mentioned nothing of cigar-ends and sucked oranges. He conceived himself to be the victim of a premeditated insult; and, turning toward the donors as soon as they had exhausted their gifts, he returned them with interest, pelting the astonished Creoles vigorously with weapons which they themselves had supplied. They soon retaliated, and, with cries of disdain and anger, strove to seize him and pin him to the ground. This was a catastrophe which I had not anticipated. All was now tumult and confusion. I rushed to my friend’s assistance, and both of us happening to be scientific pugilists, and much superior in size and strength to the gentlemen present, we fought our way to an open window, and leaped some ten feet to the ground. A pistol was discharged, as we alighted, from the hand of some enraged opponent, but it did no harm, and, gliding along the shady side of the street, we escaped farther molestation and pursuit. Poor Dayton! He never afterward danced the zapateo.”

“What became of him?” asked I, as I finished my last cup of hyson.

“He died the next week, of the yellow fever, contracted by indiscreet exposure to the sun,” said Smith. “I had it badly myself at the same time, but recovered.”

“Shall we walk on deck? It is a beautiful evening.”

“As you please.”

BY HARRY FRANCO.

MORAL.

BY RICHARD H. DANA.

SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT OF WILLIAM H. LEGGETT.

BY GEORGE HILL.

BY T. C. GRATTAN.

(Continued from Volume XXIII, Number 4.)

CHAPTER VI.

It will be remembered that as soon as poor Corryeur and his wife left Balmat’s house, after the fruitless attempt to acquire tidings of their missing child, he who so brutally repulsed their entreaties for information also disappeared from the scene. It need hardly be stated that he had set out, by a circuitous path, on a visit to his little prisoner. He had effected his object of leaving no proof in the hands of her parents that she was concealed in his premises, or that he shrunk from a prompt and minute search. While he took his upward way through the wood on the road to Montauvert, and was soon lost to the eyes of the most inquisitive or suspicious of his neighbors, the unhappy parents, baffled in their best chance of success, had repaired to the village magistrate, detailed their misfortune, and loudly demanded inquiry, assistance, and, if possible, redress. All that could be granted to them was granted, namely, a summons for the appearance of old Jeannette with the men employed about Balmat’s mill, and subsequently a strict search in the premises. This order was instantly obeyed, but the examination which was forthwith proceeded on produced no result. The men evidently knew nothing of their master’s doings, and the old woman explained her somewhat doubtful expressions to Corryeur by the very natural and laudable feeling of a wish to give him at least the consolation of hope.

In the mean time the report of Julie’s disappearance had spread through the village and reached the postoffice. The attention of the antiquated female functionary who did the internal duties of that important branch of administration was thus drawn to the billet found in the box to Corryeur’s address. On ordinary occasions it might and would have lain for days unheeded in the narrow recipient of mountain correspondence; but the good nature of the woman overcame the indifference of the postmistress, and her old hobbling letter-carrier was despatched in all speed—and that was not of mercurial quality—to convey the document that promised a chance of relief to the afflicted father and mother. This announcement of her safety, in Julie’s well known handwriting, was indeed a world of comfort to them. And the strange fact of her favorite goat having also disappeared, seemed to carry conviction that both were somewhere together, and that not in any distant retreat. No one imagined the possibility of their both being a league up in the mountains. And so the matter rested for awhile, speculation and cogitation utterly failing to throw any decided light on the truth.

When Balmat reached the châlet, which was during the magisterial inquiry just mentioned, he found every thing as he had left it a few hours before, except that the sun now lighted up with all its splendor the gray and misty beauties of the morning landscape. The goat browsed patiently in the rich herbage, and no sound save the murmuring of the rock-formed cataracts broke the stillness of the scene. Gabriel peeped once more through the window bars, and saw that Julie still slept. Gently loosing the string which bound the goat, and unlocking the door of the hut, he let the animal walk in, and he watched the effect. It began at first to toss about the leafy and mossy carpet, and to nibble at some of its most tender materials, but in a few minutes it came up to the couch, and (whether it recognized its young mistress or not is beyond the reach of our philosophy) it instantly set up its wonted note of tremulous bleating, standing close to the object which its voice seemed calling into consciousness. Julie suddenly started up, rubbed her eyes with both hands, looked round and round the chamber, fixed her gaze for a moment on the window, then let it fall on the still bleating animal, which she as instantly embraced with animated delight, while it licked her face and returned her caresses, with a thousand grotesque yet affectionate gambols. Julie next arose from her reclining posture; and Balmat as instantly retired to allow her an opportunity of arranging her simple toilet unobstructedly. As he walked aside he threw up his eyes and hands in wonder—not at the familiar objects of romantic grandeur which surrounded the scene, but at the amazing change in his own nature, which had never till then known a sentiment of delicacy.

In a little while Julie was out on the greensward which surrounded the hut, and she ran affectionately toward Balmat, followed by her recovered favorite, and with looks beaming with gratitude she thanked him again and again for the kindness he had done her. She inquired how he managed to bring the goal so long and so difficult a road. Balmat replied that to come to those one loved such obstacles were as nothing; and though his answer was meant to apply to the animal, Julie did not fail to attach its meaning to Gabriel’s self. She took it for granted that he had seen her parents and obtained the goat with their consent—for though she had most pleasant dreams, she never dreamt of the fact of his stolen expedition and the double journey he had made since supper time. He admitted his having seen her father and mother, assured her that her letter had quite satisfied them about her, and shuffled over her other questionings—thus mingling truth, lies and equivocation altogether.

“And now, Julie, you must think of your housekeeping,” said Balmat, turning from her homeward theme. “While you milk the goat, I will make the fire. Here is a packet of coffee which I have brought with me, and a few fresh laid eggs which I picked up in my own hen-house, so that with the bread, butter, cheese and honey in store within, I think we shall make a breakfast that the Syndic of Sallenche might envy us for.”

In a few minutes more the division of labor thus suggested was acted on; and in due time they prepared and finished their repast, with a gusto only known to the inhabitants or visiters of high regions, and the possessors of high spirits. A walk into the deeper recesses of the glen was next proposed by Balmat, and gladly acceded to by Julie, for she longed to explore the beauties of the place which she had as yet scarcely seen, except in the brilliant yet vague glimpses of the moon. They wandered along, and rambled about, and talked in a desultory manner of many subjects, all of them nearly as new to one as the other. They were in many points on a par of very strange equality. It is custom alone which gives manhood the superiority over childhood in matters of taste and feeling. The full grown inexperience of Gabriel, who had never known the advantages of reciprocated sympathy, reduced him quite to a level of his companion’s girlish tone of reasoning, on every topic beyond the mere material occupations in which his life had been passed; while the animation of her more lively intellect actually took the lead in many points of the conversation, which turned chiefly on the nature of the new formed and anomalous friendship which had so marvellously sprung up between them, and thus their talk was like that of two young and uninformed tyros, rather than the converse of a pair whose disparity of years and difference of sex were in keeping with their widely discrepant characters. They interchanged ideas, and mingled comments, and bandied questions and answers with a total absence of the timidity of ignorance on one hand and the assumption of knowledge on the other. Maturity and childhood met each other half way; and that morning’s conversation, perhaps unparalleled in its kind, possessed all the springy freshness and pure vivacity of youth and innocence.

Balmat’s constant exercise and total want of rest for the previous four-and-twenty hours had tired out his robust frame, and his mental excitement during that period called also for repose. So, after wandering about for an hour or more, he sat down on a tufted bed of wild thyme, in the shadow of a granite block, with Julie by his side, her apron filled with a dozen varieties of bright and fragrant flowers, heretofore unknown to her comparatively lowland experience.

“And now you will keep your last night’s promise,” said she, carelessly tossing her floral treasures about, and archly looking up at her murky countenanced companion. “You will now tell me why you brought me here, and how long you mean me to remain, and what I am to do in this beautiful desert?”

“Certainly, I will tell you all that,” replied Balmat with a smile which changed the expression of his face into something like good looks; “and I hope you will quite understand me, my dear little Julie.

“Now, in the first place, you know very well that every one in the world—except yourself perhaps—hates me. And I must confess that I hate every one but you, Julie. I am, just lately, ever since the day your little brother fell into the river, thinking that it is a terrible thing not to love some one or other, and to have nobody that really loves me. I, therefore, have encouraged rather than repressed that fancy which I took for you so suddenly. I have found myself gradually, day by day, liking you better and better, and in proportion as I liked you better, I seemed to like myself better—but everybody else in the world worse and worse. There is something within me, Julie, that won’t let me scatter my good nature about the world upon every one, as the wind blows the flowers and buds in all directions. It is more like the sun, fixing its beams in this little glen—and—and—”

“Yes, Monsieur Balmat, but the sun shines upon the mountains and valleys also,” said Julie, completely demolishing Gabriel’s already broken metaphor.

“Well, that was not exactly what I meant,” said he, somewhat abruptly and in a self dissatisfied tone. “What I mean is that my feelings, such as they are, are of a fixed and positive kind, and that I can’t bear to like more than one person, and that now that I find that I can like one, I am capable of going any lengths in my love for that one.”

“And I am that one?” asked Julie, putting her hand on Balmat’s.

“Yes, on my sacred word, Julie, you are, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for your happiness,” replied he, taking up the little hand in his coarse one and putting it to his lips; but astonished at this stretch of gallantry, he laid it down softly again beside him without kissing it.

“Well, then,” said Julie briskly, “come with me now to our mill, and make friends with my father.”

“No, Julie, no—I cannot do that—that is to say, not all at once. You must give me time. The first thing to be sure of is your affection for me. If I can secure that, I am afraid I must come to better terms with your father and mother. That is the worst of it—but I have made up my mind for even that.”

“Then, why didn’t you at once shake hands with them weeks ago, and come to see us every day at the mill, and make us all happy? Surely that would have been the best way for all our sakes, instead of giving yourself the great trouble you have done here.”

“Julie, I never could have brought myself to visit your father on the chance of making you like me. My pride would not let me expose any weakness before him and the rest of your family. Besides, you would not have liked me there. You would have seen in me nothing but my bad qualities. But here I have you to myself. You have a proof, in all I have done here, how very much I must love you; and by being here alone with me you may in a little time find out whether you really can like me, and how much.”

“Well, but after all, I must by and by know you mixing with other people. We cannot always live alone in this wild place.”

“Not here, Julie. But I have a notion that we might find a place still more lonely, though a great deal larger than this, far off, away beyond the mountains, and beyond the sea, in a strange country where we should meet none of the odious people who live here. What would you think of that?”

“I can’t bear to think of it at all. Nothing would make me give up my dear papa and mamma, and my brothers and sisters, and I know no odious people—I am sure the neighbors all round us are very kind and very good.”

“Julie, you must not speak of them in that way. I hate them all.”

“Then how can you like me, who like them all so much?”

“That I do not know,” said Balmat seriously. “But it is certain that I do like you as much as I hate the rest—”

“Then, perhaps, for my sake you will like them by and by.”

“Perhaps so. God knows what effect you may produce on me—but you must love me first, Julie; and it is for the chance of that that I have brought you here. So let us forget all the stupid people who live elsewhere, and see what we can do for each other here.”

“I am sure I can never do enough for you, Monsieur Balmat, in return for all you have done for me already.”

“My dear Julie, you have done more for me, without knowing it, than perhaps I can ever do for you. You have opened my eyes on my own heart, and enabled me to see down far into its depths.”

“Well, now, do tell me what it is like, and what you found there.”

“Why I don’t exactly know what it is like, Julie, if it isn’t the salt mines of Foully,” said Balmat, with another of his improving smiles. “For amidst a great deal of darkness, I think there is here and there a little glimmering spark—”

“Which we must work up and turn into something very wholesome and palatable, my dear Monsieur Balmat,” said Julie, taking his hand and looking beamingly up into his face.

“God bless you, Julie!” said he, squeezing the little hands together in both of his. But he immediately loosed his hold, and covered his eyes with his broad palms; and turning suddenly round, laid his face earthward, and neither spoke nor moved for some minutes.

Julie watched him quietly for awhile. Then gently rose up and walked away a little distance. She went over toward the goat and played with it, looking still at Balmat. She then stepped softly up beside him. His hands had fallen from his face; and while she saw that he was fast asleep, she observed the trickling mark of a tear that had come out from his closed lids and moistened his swarthy cheek.

It was full two hours before Gabriel awoke. His awakening was electrical. He sprung at once on his feet, looked round in every direction, and not perceiving Julie anywhere, he ran to the hut, then in a moment emerged from it, and was hastening along the path which he had himself formed, toward the opening of the glen on the way to Chamouny, when he was arrested by a burst of childish laughter faintly heard, and looking upward he perceived the object of his search sitting on a projecting ledge of granite far above him, her goat by her side, her own head and the neck of the animal fancifully decorated with wreaths of wild flowers, a quantity of which little Julie amused herself by scattering down toward her astonished, pleased, but somewhat alarmed friend. For mixed with his delight to find that she had not escaped from him, was an almost involuntary shudder on observing the perilous position to which she had climbed, and sat perched on, with an apparent unconsciousness of danger. This absence of nervousness in situations of risk, arises either from a reckless disposition or a confidence in one’s own resources. The latter was the case with Julie. And Balmat was already impressed with a sufficient insight into her character to be convinced of it. He therefore made no ill-judged effort to hurry to her relief, nor did he show any anxiety; but sending up a kind gesture or two, in token of recognition and satisfaction, he beckoned her down with a coaxing air. Agile and sure-footed, because sure-headed, Julie made little difficulty about the means of descent. She stepped from stone to stone, and clung by whatever wild grass or weeds she could grasp at on her way; stopping from time to time to waft a salute to the admiring and expectant Gabriel, or to call her goat, who respectfully followed her track, as if taking a lesson from her prudent activity. In a few minutes she had come down from a height that it must have required an hour to ascend to; and when she touched the grass-covered earth again, Balmat could not resist the impulse to take her in his arms, and for the first time he impressed a kiss on either side of her flushed and animated face.

“I gave you a nice fright, didn’t I?” said Julie laughing.

“Why, certainly, I was alarmed to see you in so dangerous a place, and really, my little friend, it was very impru—”

“Come, come, Monsieur Balmat, it is not that I mean, and you know very well it was not that which frightened you so much—but you thought I had run away home—I know you did, and it was that which made me laugh at you.”

“No, I assure you, my dear Julie, I couldn’t believe that, because—”

“Then why did you hurry off so fast, after looking for me in the châlet? Ah, Monsieur Balmat, you see it is no use, you cannot deceive me.”

“Nor do I wish it, Julie. But—”

“But what? You are afraid to confide in me? Isn’t that it?”

“No, not exactly that; but you are very young, and you do not yet quite know your own mind, and you know me scarcely at all, and so—”

“And so you are resolved to keep me as a sort of prisoner in this delightful place, notwithstanding that I am so happy in it I would not leave it for the whole wide world.”

“Not for the whole wide world, Julie, but perhaps you would for that little bit of it on which your father’s mill is now standing? Eh! confess it now in your turn, Mademoiselle Julie, were you not very much disposed to run off toward home when you thought I was sleeping just now?”

“O fie, Monsieur Balmat—thought you were sleeping! You know very well you did sleep most soundly; and it is quite as true that I never dreamt of going home. I might easily have done so if I chose it.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I think it would be very dishonorable to you, after all the pains you have taken to make this place so nice for me; but I fairly tell you, Monsieur Balmat, that as soon as I get tired of being here I will escape from it, unless you let me go away freely.”

“Well, Julie, that is fair warning, and now we understand each other; and I promise you solemnly that whenever you tell me you wish to go you shall have my full permission.”

Such was the convention between the friends; and for the rest of the day they talked it over, and many points arising from it, with an increasing confidence in each other. But even from this first day’s unbroken intercourse, it was evident that the inevitable ascendancy to be gained by one of two minds so situated, was already inclining in Julie’s favor. Young as she was, her inexperience was overbalanced by the natural strength and buoyancy of her character, and by the total artlessness of nature which put those qualities forth without any effort. Balmat, rough, bold and cautious, had always an object to strain for in this strange intercourse. He was never quite at his ease, because never sure of himself. And his repeated projects for saying or planning something to gain an influence over Julie were constantly frustrated by some such abrupt and upsetting remarks as I have already recorded. It may be taken as a fact that in all such mental partnerships the simple, straight forward intellect will be sure to take the lead, if both are on a tolerable par of equality in point of talent; and that it is not in any case a question of youth or age.

CHAPTER VII.

A fortnight passed over without any of those abrupt or startling incidents which form epochs in a life or give effect to a story. Day after day, Gabriel Balmat was sure to make his appearance, soon after sunrise, at the châlet, to quit it again at nightfall, and return home to inquire about the business of his mill, which went on its usual slovenly and imperfect way, under the management of his men. Old Jeannette saw with wonderment the great change in her master’s manner and temper. Something had evidently come over him, of a bright and soothing nature, like a sunbeam that makes a path of light through a dark wood. The old woman was pleased at this; for she liked him about as much as the keeper of a menagerie may like the beasts he feeds, and coaxes, and dreads the while. But as soon would she have dared to question the mysterious workings of Balmat’s heart, as the keeper aforesaid would hope to know what passed in the brains of his savages. Gabriel had, therefore, that greatest of luxuries for a mind strong enough to bear its own happiness, the pleasure of enjoying a secret, without the want of a confident or the intrusion of a friend, as inquisitive pesterers are, in common parlance, called.

The poor Corryeurs did not know what to think or how to act. Their feelings on the one hand, and their “friends” on the other, were a perpetual torment to them. What with inborn anxiety and unasked-for advice, they had not a moment’s peace. The thousand projects, self-conceived or suggested by others, thwarting each other, and all one by one abandoned, baffled every attempt at detail from any source open to my inquiries. I confess myself curious to know what parents could do or might feel in a case like this; but as my readers are already aware that there was no actual danger hanging over our heroine, we may pass by all inquiries as to the fears and hopes of the father and mother. One little incident arising from them must, however, be recorded.

It was on the sixteenth morning of Julie’s voluntary exile from her home, and just as the sun, rushing up to the topmost height of heaven, burnished the snow-covered peaks into a brightness that was too dazzling for Gabriel Balmat’s eyes, that he turned them for a moment round, to see that no one followed or observed him, as he took the wood path toward Montauvert, on his usual walk to the châlet. Keen as a hawk that has its heart fixed on its prey, and its glance on the lookout for the sportsman, Gabriel caught sight of a human figure crouched behind a pine tree, and evidently in the attitude of one that watched. He doubted not for an instant that it was his movements which were thus observed. The doer of a secret deed has always a spy in his conscience. Balmat was as cunning as he was suspicious. He therefore paused a few seconds carelessly, then lounged into the cover, with the air of one indifferent or thoughtless. But the moment he was concealed from view, he darted suddenly through the brushwood, round in the direction of the hidden figure; and, as he gained the rear of the position, he observed a man stealthily but quickly going in the line he had himself taken a few minutes before. He was instantly on the track of his imagined follower, whom he recognized as one of the youths employed at Paul Corryeur’s mill. His conviction of his being watched and dogged by order of the persons he still hated so cordially, threw him into one of those fits of calm fury, so terrible in a temper like his. In a few minutes he was close behind the youth, who paused on the path with straining looks to discover the object he believed himself to be pursuing. In a moment more a powerful stroke from Balmat’s staff brought the stunned and terrified youth to the ground; for as he reeled and fell, he caught a view of the bloodless face of his assailant, whose desperate look was more frightful than his upraised weapon. Another and another blow fell quick on the prostrate and now senseless body, and a few seconds would have certainly left it a corpse, had not the appearance of another person, and the loud cries for mercy which broke on Balmat’s ear, arrested him for a moment in his bloody work.

“Oh, spare him! It was not his fault—he acted by my orders—he only did the bidding of a mother seeking to recover her child.”

As Balmat turned round and saw Madame Corryeur, all the desperate passions of his nature became at once concentrated. The rage of the tiger interrupted in his bloody feast—the revenge of the savage Indian who has tracked his enemy to his last retreat—the fiercest and most deadly feelings that could stimulate a man to murder, rushed all at once upon him. He gazed for a few moments on the imploring figure of the poor woman. But he saw her indistinctly, for the film of passion was upon his eyes. A confused murmur of words was in his ears; but he did not distinguish her plaintive entreaties for mercy to the helpless victim at his feet, accompanied with appeals for news of her lost daughter.

He deliberately strode forward, and at every step he grasped his weapon with more strength, while his lips became closer compressed, his eyes more fixed, and his brow more firmly knit. The woman, now for her own sake terrified to excess, marking the fearful look which glowered on her, and the appalling calm with which Balmat raised up his arm as if to strike, sank on her knees, with lifted hands and a loud shriek that made him start and pause. That one wild sound brought him into complete consciousness. The image of little Julie seemed magically interposed between him and the mother thus miraculously saved. The rigid tension of muscle—and mind—was all at once relaxed. His right arm dropped slowly down by his side; a ghastly smile passed over his pale lips; and quietly waving his left hand in the direction of the valley, he said, in a calm tone.

“Go home, Madame Corryeur, go home—you have no reason to be alarmed—go home!”

Like a reprieved criminal at the scaffold’s foot, she could not at the first moment understand the announcement of mercy. She still maintained her kneeling posture, and her words ran on in the same tone of supplication.

“Why, you don’t suppose I was going to do you any harm?” said Balmat.

“Oh, no!” replied she, recovering at once her consciousness of safety, and the cunning which prompted an avoidance of any thing likely to offend him. “It was only for that poor lad that I implored your compassion—he is punished sufficiently for my fault.”

Balmat threw a scowl at the now recovering youth, who groaned and writhed from pain. He then said, in a quiet but determined way,

“Let this be a lesson to you and to him; and keep this little adventure to yourselves. If I am further troubled by you or your people, I have my revenge in my own hands, Madame Corryeur.”

“Alas! I fear so!” exclaimed she, “you have us all in your power, Gabriel; do then be merciful,” (for once, she was near adding, but she gulped down the words,) “and put me out of pain with regard to Julie.”

“What an extraordinary woman you are,” replied he scoffingly. “What could I know of your daughter more than everybody knows? She has herself told you, two or three times under her hand, that she is well and happy.”

“Ah, Gabriel, you do know more than that, and perhaps even that is not true.”

“True or false, it is none of my business—you know you once accused me of having murdered her.”

“I ask your pardon for that suspicion—but that you have some hand in her concealment I am now certain.”

Balmat only answered by a laugh of mockery; and then adding, as he pointed to the wounded youth who now slowly raised himself from the ground,

“You had better look to that lout and take him away.”

He walked off into the wood with a steady and resolute air, not deigning to reply to the entreaties for a few words more, for a few minutes delay, which the afflicted mother continued to pour out as long as he was within hearing or sight. She was afraid to follow him; and when he disappeared she turned her attention to the young man, stanched the blood that flowed from his head, and returned with him to the mill, from whence she had stolen out unknown to her husband, a couple of hours before, to lie in wait for and watch the proceedings of the object of her suspicion, and now, more than ever, of her terror also.

Balmat, in the mean time, proceeded on his devious route, turning and twisting like a frightened hare; but not so much from dread of a renewed pursuit as from the hope of escaping from his own agitating thoughts, ere he reached the châlet and presented himself as usual with an unruffled aspect to his now dear-loved prisoner. Madame Corryeur was not more terrified by the expectation of Balmat’s threatened violence than he was at the recollection of it, nor more rejoiced at the escape which had saved him from the commission of the crime he was within an instant of committing. The wild shriek which had recalled him to a sense of his atrocity still rang in his ears. It was like a voice from Heaven sent direct to his heart. It was the warning of a guardian angel, to make him pause on the brink of a precipice. He shuddered at the retrospect. He felt that if he had dealt one felon blow and killed the mother of Julie, he was lost beyond hope. His next step would, as it seemed to his turbid mind, have inevitably been the murder of Julie, and then perhaps his own destruction. Picture upon picture rose up in his imagination, one more horrid than another. His suffering was intense. At times he stood still, and, placing his hand upon his eyes, strove, as it were, to shut out those frightful images. Then he would run forward for a space, as if to fly from his pursuing thoughts. Again he flung himself on the ground, end rolled about in mental agony. At last, he regained sufficient self-command to enable him to continue his path with some show of calmness. It was a fixed determination to fly altogether the scene of his suffering and the chance of its renewal, that thus gave him a respite from despair. To scrape together all the ready money he could lay hands on, to sell his property in his house and mill, to carry off Julie into the depths of the mountain chain, and farther if their retreat should be discovered, were the abrupt but positive resolutions now formed: and, having thus made up his mind, he at length felt himself in a fitting mood to approach the châlet, and in appetite for the morning repast.

During the fortnight which had just passed, with all the apparent speed which monotony gives to time, Julie had become a perfect enthusiast as to the nobler beauties of nature with which she was in such close communion; and she was, day by day, more enamored with the romantic independence of her present life. A fortnight so passed, in such sequestered solitude with scenes like those, without care or disquietude, and with an absolute equality of enjoyment, was like a day in the computation of life. On a child of Julie’s temperament it was, nevertheless, sure to stamp an ineffaceable influence. The opening vigor of her character expanded with maturity like a flower shone on by the ripening sun. Her mind seemed every hour to take in lessons of strength and purity, from the observance of nature’s grand simplicity. The sunrise and sunset, the march of the moon, the regulated anarchy of Heaven’s starry host, the stupendous mountains, and all their tributary forms of hill, vale, stream and cataract, worked upon the intellect of this young creature, until she felt herself as more a thing of them than of the mortal world to which she appertained. Had education been at hand, to graft its miracles of knowledge on this stem of rude enthusiasm, our little Julie might have become a paragon of cultivated science, instead of the heroine of a simple mountain tale.

CHAPTER VIII.

Julie’s liking for Balmat grew rapidly, and took firm root as it grew. It was not a mere childish fancy for an attractive object, likely to be effaced by the new impression of another more attractive; but a solid regard founded on one of those fixed principles which arise in early life from very brief occurrences. The soil of a young mind brings promptly to maturity any seed of sentiment which is chance-sown in proper season. It dispenses with all the culture of reason and reflection, which in more advanced years is required to justify an attachment or confirm a passion. It was gratitude that formed the basis of Julie’s regard; and, in a generous mind capable of doing a service without selfishness, and receiving one without envy, that is the best foundation for affection. Neither was Balmat’s one of those fleeting fancies which sports with its object, as a plaything to be changed, on some caprice, for a new toy. He looked upon Julie as the instrument of a higher power, intended to turn him into the ways of virtuous thought. In a more elevated mood, he at times considered her as a little missionary from Heaven itself, sent on his path of life to lead to his conversion. While with her, he was ever alive to this notion; and he admitted, as if by right, in their daily intercourse, her supremacy on almost every matter of feeling, opinion, or sentiment.

All this was very flattering to a girl hitherto the associate of children and treated only as a child. Unconscious of any merit that could entitle her to so much consideration on Balmat’s part, she regarded it as the effect of sheer good-nature and benevolence; and knowing herself to be the only object on which he had ever exercised those qualities, she was grateful in a far greater degree than she would have been to any other person. With the usual mistake of the inexperienced or thoughtless, she made the great error of estimating Balmat’s character according to his conduct toward her. That is the proper standard by which to measure men’s affections, but not their opinions. We may very well love, and love very well, the object we do not esteem. We rob the heart of one its best privileges when we insist on its rejecting the offerings of those who treat us well, merely because they act ill toward others. Love, in all its modifications, is, and ought to be, an individuality. But Julie, had she been older or wiser, would have known that few men are every thing to all men; and that each individual is entitled to form a distinct and separate estimate of each. As it was, she was as thoroughly satisfied of Balmat’s worth as she had reason to be of his regard; and a few days of their intercourse wholly removed every previous impression in his disfavor. His delight at this result was unbounded and deep felt. He viewed himself, day by day, as a better man. Julie’s embrace was worth a dozen homilies. He felt as though baptized into grace without water. He was virtually recanting his errors, without the performance of penance. The shock produced by the incident I have awhile ago recorded was, therefore, violent in the extreme. He seemed to have at once relapsed into all his former ferocity! Had he not imagined that the form of Julie interposed between her mother and his uplifted arm, he would have believed himself abandoned both by Heaven and her. But the wild workings of his mind all revolved round the conviction that she was his only chance of safety and happiness—the star by whose brightness he had alone to steer; and, in that voyage of life which he now contemplated, he was resolved to carry her with him as at once his pilot and his cynosure.

Julie could not rightly comprehend Balmat’s manner, or reach the exact meaning of the vague hints dropped by him during this morning’s visit. His mind was evidently troubled, and his words were, at times, unconnected and rambling. It was clear that his thoughts, like evening shadows, embraced some far and dim perspective, on which they threw a still deeper shade. Julie was yet too childish and inexperienced to send her mental vision into the space of abstraction in which her companion’s wandered; but she had good sense enough to abstain from any attempt to pry into his secret thoughts.

The day was passed, as usual, by the two friends, sauntering in the glen, reposing in the shade, and, at times, retiring into the châlet, for purposes of refreshment or for the preparation of each homely repast. They talked pretty much to the same effect as at other times, on subjects rather circumscribed, but full of local interest; but the particular tone of thoughtfulness which overcame all Balmat’s efforts to conquer it, cast a heaviness quite unusual over the day’s intercourse. He looked, now and then, with an air of regret at every object, as if a mental leave-taking was passing in his mind. He felt as if driven out, by the necessity of fate, from a paradise of his own making; and he was perplexed by doubts and fears as to Julie’s feelings on the proposal he was so soon to make, and so resolved to enforce. As evening came on, and his mind was more made up, he grew proportionately more composed, and he took his leave for the night in his usual affectionate and disembarrassed manner. Julie had almost forgotten his former air of uneasiness; and she prepared to retire to rest, as soon as he left the châlet, locking the door with his accustomed caution, which all his confidence in his beloved prisoner never induced him to neglect.

As Balmat took his downward course toward home, he felt the oppression of the sultry air hang round him like the heavy gloom which seemed as though it stifled his thoughts. Yet the unusual closeness of the atmosphere was not particularly remarked by one so little alive to exterior impressions, and not observant of changes of weather, to which he was at most times indifferent. For the last fortnight, a succession of splendid days and nights had given an additional enchantment to the scenery of the Alps. Not a cloud had hovered on their sides, and yet the sunbeams were tempered by those delicious breezes which seem to steal out of the mountain’s breast, for no purpose but to sport with the wild flowers, and waft their perfumes abroad. Julie, who had fully enjoyed those exquisite advantages of the season and the climate, had felt, as she lay down on her leafy couch, all the oppression of the thick and heavy contrast to the balmy breath of the preceding nights. She tossed about uneasily for awhile, envying the goat which occupied a rude shed outside the châlet; and, for the first time since she had taken up her present quarters, regretting and being discontented with the restraint which prevented her from rushing out into the open air, and seeking, on a bed of grass, the refreshing rest which was banished from her own. But youth and the impulses of nature make light of almost all obstacles of atmosphere or climate. Julie was soon asleep; nor were her ears disturbed by the distant growl of the thunder, nor her eyes affected by the pale flashes of lightning, which were like faint reflections from the snow heaps that received the distant illumination.

As soon as Balmat reached his dwelling, he began in earnest to look into his accounts, and turn in his mind the various details of his affairs necessary for the regulation of the removal which he contemplated for the morrow. Thus employed, he paid little attention to the oppressive heat, and less to the distant voice of the storm, which, as night set in, became more confirmed. It was evident, to every one in a mood for observation, that nature was laboring in some great convulsion. Whirlwinds swept along the valley, raising up the dust, in spiral columns, till it mingled with the misty shrouds that came down from the mountain’s sides. Rolling masses of vapor pressed on those lighter mists, and sudden darkness covered the whole landscape. The trees were shaken to the earth. Even the gnarled stems became flexible, and bent their stubborn bulk before the blast. The waves of the little river were swollen and tossed in foam, far beyond either bank. The colossal battlements which hem in the valley were raked by the sudden storm-gusts, and huge fragments of rock were hurled down below. As the hurricane increased, the time-worn trunks of heavy pine trees were snapped across, branches were whirled about like feathers in the air, and the ground groaned with the monstrous birth of uptorn roots, scattered to and fro like unburied skeletons. And then, while the hoarse wind galloped on, and the deep mouthed caverns echoed its fierce moaning, the portals of heaven appeared thrown wide open. The clouds cast out their hitherto pentup furies. Vivid streaming fires poured forth, and the rattling volleys of sound which followed every flash, were like the shouts of mischief-loving fiends who sported in the elemental war.

Such is the moment when the mind that despises the mean home of human nothingness flies panting through the thunder-shaken space; soars far above the sordid confines of worldly things; and, with the pride that suits the soul, feels that earth is not wide enough for man.

But he who now rushed out into the storm and braved its fury, was not moved by any such elevated imaginings. It was the mere impulse of human passion, the powerful sense of affection stirring the pulse of animal courage, which urged forth Gabriel Balmat to throw himself between the natural fears of his young prisoner and the possible dangers to which she might be exposed. Not being a man of lively fancy, he was not tortured by the dread of what might have already happened. But the whole force of his feelings being excited, he toiled along his path with the desperate confidence of a bold mind that believes itself, in the moment of action, invulnerable and invincible. His only feeling was “Let me reach her!” Once on the spot, he had no doubts as to his ability to soothe, inspire, and save her. And so he labored on; blown to the earth more than once by the wind, drenched by the flood of rain, beaten by the hailstones, half blinded by the sulphurous flashes, and almost stunned by the thunder claps and the roaring of the storm.

When he was about half way up the path to the châlet, a sudden cessation of all those difficulties took place. All was still and calm, as though nature had sunk into a deep sleep. Not a sound was heard but the rushing of the mountain streams, now swelled into so many cataracts, and which, here and there sweeping across Balmat’s path, formed new obstacles to retard but without power to finally prevent his progress. Never had he made so fatiguing a march, yet never had he felt less susceptible of fatigue. He was braced up to a power of physical endurance that nothing seemed capable of subduing. The calm, which had so suddenly succeeded to the late furious agitation, left him time for reflection; and now, for the first time, his thoughts turned, for a moment, to the possible personal chances which might have befallen Julie in her solitude, and to the effect which so fearful a tempest might have produced on her mind. The mental shock of this reflection urged him electrically forward. He soon reached the entrance of the glen; and, pushing on through every impediment of mud and stones, forced onward by the rushing stream, he was making rapid progress, when a sudden flash of lightning and a close following thunder-clap told him that the storm had burst out anew, and near at hand. He sprung forward with breathless speed. A quick succession of flashes showed him his way clearly. He gained a view of the little hut. He threw up his hands toward heaven and uttered a faint shout of joy, when, at that instant, another cloud, which seemed waiting over the spot in order that he might witness the catastrophe, opened wide; a stream of fire shot out directly upon the châlet’s roof; the crash of the thunder was so quick that Balmat could not hear the noise of the shattered walls, but he was in no want of light to see that the little building was split open to the earth, and that it lay on it a heap of ruins. Who has not felt the heart-sickness of fear for a beloved object—the sense of powerful affliction at being unable to ward off a danger from the one best loved. It was such that now unmanned the fierce Balmat, for a moment, even unto complete prostration. Then came the horrid thought that Julie must have been destroyed, and that was the spring that gave him instant motion again. His was a mind to rush into a knowledge of the worst. He sprung forward, leaped over the rugged barrier of ruined wall, and beheld Julie pale, breathless, but unharmed, sitting on her little couch, and looking up with fixed gaze at the mountains, which were incessantly illuminated by the broad flashes, and might be supposed shaken to their very base by the terrific peals that rattled through the whole Alpine chain.

As soon as Julie saw Balmat she rushed into his arms. He was completely overpowered by the varied emotions so rapidly excited and so forcibly felt. He clasped her close, but did not speak a word in reply to her expressions of delight at having him with her, of astonishment at her escape, and of admiration at the awful scene which was still at intervals represented before her.

“Oh, Julie!” said Balmat, at length, “I have suffered much on your account, but most of all from remorse at having exposed you to this. Thank God you have escaped! You must now leave this wretched place. The storm is going down to the valley. We may safely follow it, Julie. Let us hurry away—the rain is still heavy—you must not linger here or on the road.”

“And where are we to go, Monsieur Balmat?” asked she, almost tremblingly.

“Where? wherever your heart prompts to, Julie,” said he.

“Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times! To my father’s, to my father’s then. Oh, think what my parents may have felt on my account during this scene. How wicked I have been to have left them so long in suspense about me! You would have taken me home long ago if I had required it. Oh, I am ashamed of myself! This frightful scene has been a punishment for my unnatural conduct. How good God has been not to kill me outright! Oh, come, come, Monsieur Balmat! my dear, kind friend and protector, take me home!”

“Yes, Julie, I will indeed take you home, and much do I give praise to Heaven for having spared you. Oh, dearest Julie, if you knew what agony I felt about you, you would love me, I am sure.”

“I do love you, very, very much. I assure you I do.”

“And you will not let your father and mother turn you against me?”

“Oh, they will love you too, you may depend on it they will, when you restore me to them, when I tell them all you have done to make me happy, and the fearful danger you have snatched me from—and come to share it, all out of love to me.”

“Well, Julie, I trust in you. I care not for any one else; but I hope the memory of this night will make you love me always, and in spite of every one.”

With these words solemnly spoken, Balmat wrapped Julie’s cloak about her, produced her bonnet from the rubbish around; and, hastily snatching a few articles of her dress, he took her under his arm and carefully led her out. Once beyond the ruined walls, she stopped, and anxiously looked about. Balmat knew what she sought for, and, leading her aside, he said,

“Oh, it is no matter for to-night. I will come up for her in the morning—never mind her.”

“Ah,” said Julie, quickly, and stopping as she spoke, “I understand you—she is dead—she is killed by the lightning!”

“Yes, my little friend, it is indeed true. Your favorite lies dead there—I saw her as we came out.”

A violent flood of tears was Julie’s answer. Without speaking a word she hastily drew her arm from under Balmat’s, turned toward the shed, and there saw the lifeless body of her goat, the object of her last fortnight’s constant attachment, the companion of her solitude, the link which seemed to keep up her connection with her family. She was sincerely and severely grieved. Balmat did not attempt to console her childish and affectionate regret. He would have patiently stood beside her all night, had she remained there weeping over her lost favorite. But she soon turned away again; for, child as she was, she had the higher object of home happiness strongly stirring in her heart.

Very few words were spoken on the way to the valley. They soon arrived at Paul Corryeur’s house. There were lights within, as if the family had not yet retired to bed; though the storm had gradually spent itself, and a fresh delicious calm had followed upon its furious traces.

“Open the door!” said Balmat, striking against it with his stick.

“Oh, God! It is that monster Gabriel,” exclaimed the mother’s voice from within. Balmat’s teeth were involuntarily ground together, and he blushed deeply,—but there was no light to betray his agitation.

“Oh, my dearest mamma, it is I—pray let me in,” said Julie.

A scream of joy was the answer; and, in a moment, the door opened, and both father and mother appeared, and clasped their recovered daughter in their arms. Balmat stood for awhile without moving, looked on, and seemed to enjoy the scene.

“What is all this? Whence came you, Julie? Where has she been, Gabriel? Tell me all about it,—I can listen to every thing, any thing now I have her safe again,” said Corryeur.

“She will tell you, neighbor Paul,” replied Balmat, in a voice broken and almost inaudible.

“Oh, God bless you for this, Gabriel! You have saved my life, in restoring my child!” sobbed forth Madame Corryeur.

“Come in, come in, Gabriel, you are drenched with the rain, and looking dreadfully tired. Come, and have something to comfort you—come in,” said Paul.

“No, Paul, not to-night—I really cannot,” replied Balmat, resisting his entreaties, and his efforts to lead him into the house.

“Well, then, to-morrow you will come to see us—to let us thank you for this blessed relief—to explain all that has occurred—to be friends with us, in short—you will come to-morrow, Gabriel?”

“Oh, yes, you surely will?” added the mother.

“Aye, that he will. I promise for him. He will not refuse my invitation,” exclaimed Julie, embracing Balmat with the most affectionate air.

“Julie, you have performed a miracle! Yes, my good neighbors, I will come to see you to-morrow,” said Gabriel. Then, cordially squeezing the hands of both husband and wife, and imprinting a long kiss on Julie’s forehead, he walked away; while they, after watching until his dark form began to disappear in the gloom, retired into their now happy home again. Gabriel looked back at them as they stood; but long before the distance between them was enough to conceal them from his sight they were invisible to him, from the gushing tears that dimmed his eyes; and in stifling his sobs he was almost choked by the emotion that he would not for worlds have betrayed.

PART II.

CHAPTER IX.

The lapse of time between the close of the first part of this story and the opening of this is like the chasm of a glacier, appearing almost nothing when the whole is taken in by the mind or the eye, but full of many a rugged point and rude projection, both difficult and dangerous when examined in detail. But this interval of six or seven years must be now bounded over, without our descending to the minuteness of scrutiny into feelings or events. Great changes had taken place, physical in the one instance, and moral in both, in the two chief personages of our story. The whole tenor of their life had received a new direction, and their beings purposely seemed fixed forever.

Immediately on the reconciliation between Balmat and the Corryeurs, the former proposed, and they accepted the offer, that he was, from that memorable morning, to take upon himself the whole charge of Julie’s education; and, without actually adopting her as his child, which the laws admitted, but which was a measure—he scarcely knew why—extremely repugnant to his feelings, he intimated that she alone should be the final possessor of all the property he then had or might afterward acquire, an inheritance of small positive value then, but which he hoped by industry and perseverance to make an object of more worth. In pursuance of the authority which this gave him over the pursuits of his young protégé, he decided, and her parents consented, that she was to be immediately placed at a boarding-school, at Martigny, her education to be conducted at his expense and under his control. There she was consequently placed, and there she remained, laying in a store of such knowledge and accomplishments as were suited to her station in life, visited frequently by her father and mother, constantly by Balmat, and gradually growing up into a fine, well-informed, and right-thinking young woman.

Julie Corryeur was in her eighteenth year, when, her education having been pronounced complete, she left the school where she had passed so long a time profitably and pleasantly, where she had made many friends by her good sense and good nature, and for which she felt all the mixed attachment inspired by the scene of childish joys, modified, as such enjoyments always are, by the feeling of restraint and the check of control which deprive them of that perfect buoyancy which is the fairy spell of happiness.

During this period of probation for her entrance into the busy scenes of the world, a considerable change had taken place, as has been already stated, and, as might be divined even without the statement, both in Julie’s personal appearance and in her way of mind. She looked and felt and thought as a woman; and it will not be considered unnatural that almost every feeling and sentiment had for its chief impulse him who had by degrees become to her the dearest object in life. The early but indelible impression of her mountain adventure had stamped her character with a deep enthusiasm, but not of that kind which sometimes runs wild in vague abstraction. Julie’s required and found an object on which it might become concentrated. The pride of having, as a mere child, effected a total revolution in such a mind as Balmat’s soon became blended with her regard for him from whom it had its source; and, as she grew toward womanhood, she could not avoid seeing that her influence over him had increased in that degree by which the convert to an opinion becomes the martyr of a cause. He was wholly devoted to her, and health, wealth, and every human good was identified in his thoughts with the absolute possession of Julie Corryeur. His conduct for upward of six years was correspondent with this thorough attachment to a virtuous and sensible girl. He was a reformed man. He became attentive to his business, civil to, if not quite sociable with his neighbors, indulgent to his old woman, and in all ways unexceptionable in his bearing toward the members of the Corryeur family, young and old.

I cannot undertake to trace the growth of the master passion which gradually advanced toward full development in the heart of this mysterious man. The progress from conception to maturity, from the seed to the full-blown flower, is an unfathomable miracle, at which the inquiring mind stops short. So does the moral budding and blossoming of human feeling baffle research and defy analysis. Suffice it to say, that Balmat’s affection for the artless child had grown into passionate love for the blooming girl; and as soon as he thoroughly understood his own sentiments he could not help their forcing themselves into the observation of those most concerned. Julie had by some sure instinct discovered his feelings, even before he acknowledged them; and the father and mother only saw in the open avowal the realization of long indulged hopes and expectations. In a word, Gabriel Balmat was the accepted lover of Julie Corryeur, and some little arrangements of property and domestic accommodations were alone required to allow of the day for the marriage being fixed and the engagement being made public.

Every thing went smoothly with Balmat. He had no rival. The very superiority of Julie to the other village girls while naturally attracting admiration at the same time inspired a sentiment of respect which considerably damps the ardor of rustic pretensions. She was wholly free from the contemptible vanity that leads some women on to the encouragement of many admirers, in the hope of more closely attaching one favored lover. Julie ran no risk of that most dangerous of female speculations; and Balmat’s dormant but well remembered ferocity was another considerable safe guard against any interference with his passion on the part of younger but less determined aspirants. He was, therefore, as yet, unconscious of the existence in his soul of the meanest and most degrading of all the passions; but jealousy was there, deep hidden and rankling, and only waiting for some real or imagined provocation to burst out in volcanic violence. Unhappily for himself and for her whose well-being was now bound upon his, an opportunity soon occurred for the outburst, which swept before it the whole harvest of years of moral cultivation.

The French invasion of Switzerland and Savoy took place. It is not within the scope of this story to admit of political details, and the very mention of this great national event must be considered but as an episode to the narrow subject of personal adventure, the chief incident of which actually grew out of the transaction of history which is thus alluded to in subserviency to it. French enterprise and Swiss patriotism are hackneyed themes, and the gallant actions which arose from the collision are so widely known and so well recorded as to leave no want of, and scarcely room for their recital here. The great and abounding tragedies of war must be left untouched, to let us concentrate our attention on one deep drama of domestic life.

Gabriel Balmat’s intellect was not broad enough to allow of his comprehending the grand motives of nationality. He was scarcely susceptible of the local attachment which is commonly and mistakenly called love of country, but which is in ordinary minds rather a love of self, and an instinctive pride in whatever they feel themselves to form a part of. It has been already seen that enmity was the natural growth of his disposition, which was almost insensible (except in one mighty instance) to affection. He, therefore, felt none of the stirring impulses which inspired many among the warriors who sprung forward to repel the invader. But he fought with bravery, and his hatred of the enemy made him strike home with as much energy as though a loftier inspiration had nerved his arm. Scenes of blood became familiar to him, and his main propensity was thus gratified and strengthened; while, from the general hatred against Frenchmen at large so naturally fostered among his compatriots, his vindictive feelings acquired a more extended sphere of action. Every native of the country which outraged and oppressed his own, was, in his eyes, an object of particular vengeance; and this generalized feeling became in some measure to his distorted intellect a justification for the individual enmity which he after awhile adopted.

When the sturdy mountaineers were driven before the French armies, the different portions of the country successively occupied were covered with depôts of the sick and wounded, and, in many instances, several of those were placed in single billets in the houses of the farmers and peasants of the valleys on the line of march. Chamouny had its share, and Paul Corryeur and his family gave a cordial and comfortable shelter to one, a young man who, with the rank of sergeant, possessed manners of a superior order to that station, and whose fine person and handsome countenance appeared to greater advantage from the delicacy and languor consequent on pain and confinement. A rifle shot through his shoulder, received a few weeks previously, quite disabled him of the use of his right arm, and frequent attacks of fever, which succeeded to the immediate severity of his hurt, left him in a state that could scarcely be called convalescent.

Kind hearted people like the Corryeurs required no inducement beyond the least complicated compassion to ensure their attentions to the wounded stranger.

But refinement, education and taste would be little better than worthless, had they not produced in the feelings of Julie a still tenderer interest for this new object of her admiration as well as her pity. The vulgar benevolence which knows no distinction of persons in a crowd of wretchedness, is, after all, a less elevated feeling than that which instinctively selects its objects for peculiar regard. Julie Corryeur would have succored and served the meanest of God’s creatures, from a feeling of duty; but there are few minds which could derive from that sentiment alone such a spring of alacrity as that with which she performed her offices of kindness toward Henri Lavalette.

This young Frenchman was, like thousands of his countrymen in those exciting days, an enthusiastic patriot, loving France, liberty and glory; and, in that powerful passion for public things, having no room for any affection of a private nature beyond the attachment so interwoven in the hearts of Frenchmen for their family connections. It was therefore, and not from any insensibility to softer emotions, or from an incapacity to appreciate Julie’s merits, that the thought of making love to her never entered his heart,—for, in spite of all theories of physiology, it is by that road that such notions reach the head. He was delighted to find a well-informed and intelligent girl in the house of a Chamouny miller; and perhaps her being very good-looking rather added a zest to her great good-nature.

Julie, unaccustomed to manners so accomplished and captivating, was naturally pleased with the society of her new acquaintance, and a rapid familiarity was the consequence between them. The absence on either side of any serious impression gave fuller play to their mutual efforts to please. They knew none of the embarrassment which is always an obstacle to a perfect understanding between persons who are unconsciously about to fall in love with each other. They spoke freely together, and there was no reserve in the communicating of their opinions of others or of each other. How long it is before a man really in love can tell the object how highly he values—how much he loves it! A woman can never do so.

The young friends now in question, not having that formidable difficulty before them, the warmth of their mutual regard was proportioned to its rapid growth. Paul and Christine Corryeur, becoming every year more matter-of-fact and not a bit more worldly-wise, never imagined any danger from their daughter’s intercourse with the sick soldier, believing her to be firmly hedged in by the solemnity of her engagement to Balmat from any possible intrusion on the part of another. Their ignorant confidence was justly placed in the present instance. But it must be clearly understood that it was so by chance, and it must not furnish either example or excuse for dull and unobserving fathers and mothers in the general walks of life. Altogether, there was not any where to be found a more unembarrassed and confiding circle than that contained in the house of Paul Corryeur; and the return of Gabriel from a roving expedition beyond the Great St. Bernard was now anxiously looked for by the whole party, as the completion of a plan of social enjoyment rarely to be found in such troublous times and in all the circumstances of the case.

The wished-for day arrived. It was autumn time, and the assembled family were abroad in scattered groups by the river side, and in the narrow pasture ground which intervened between it and the mountain’s base. The elderly couple were quietly walking arm in arm, the youths and the younger sister jumping and running about, while Julie and Lavalette lounged along the river’s side, familiarly talking over her approaching prospects in married life.

A keen eye and quick perception may read in the gait and attitudes of a beloved object, even when the voice cannot be heard or the countenance seen, the general state of the mind, though not perhaps the immediate subject of thought. How easy it is to discover the hurried step of agitation, from the slow movement of despair or the broken and buoyant march of joy. How eloquent is each action of the human frame—the arms folded or tossed about, the head elevated or down hanging, the foot firm fixed or faltering. Nature is, in fact, in all its multiplied developments, a combination of languages, and this is one which the glance of affection reads with intuitive accuracy, as though it were written in a book. Such a glance was now steadily fixed on Julie Corryeur; but it was affection of that kind which while it reads rightly is sure to interpret wrong.

When Gabriel Balmat now returned to his native village, after one of those roving expeditions, on which he was a volunteer, animated with success, and flushed with the indulgence of his sanguinary propensity, he did not choose, like his comrades, to come in the beaten road in that species of irregular, but triumphal march which amused them by its picturesqueness and éclat. His unsocial spirit led him to prefer a solitary walk by a mountain path, and he wished to steal unobserved and unexpected into the midst of the family circle of his friends, to judge for himself of the effect which his sudden appearance might produce. Besides this, there was a latent feeling of suspicion always lurking in his mind, arising from the want of confidence in the sincerity of others, which is the sure accompaniment of self-disesteem, and which forms the most congenial soil for the growth of jealousy; and such a feeling strongly seconded this clandestine approach to the scene where I now wish to transport my readers. Totally unperceived by the groups below, he reached a little plateau on the mountain side, and gazed downward with a stern and inquiring eye. He quickly singled out the figure of his betrothed; and he marked beside her, with a frantic pang of astonishment and fury, the figure of a man, in the well known and detested uniform of the French armies. Wily as he was bold, he in an instant dropped on one knee and watched. He clearly saw in the easy gait and graceful gestures of Julie that she was happy and pleased with the words of her companion, who assiduously, while he addressed her, suited his action to the speeches he poured forth. At one moment his hand was on his heart, in the next it was stretched forth, while his head turned toward her, as though he would impress some observation—or some pledge, as Balmat read it—upon her. At the distance of a hundred yards, which separated them, he could not distinguish the expression of Julie’s face. But nothing further was wanting to inflame him. And when he at length saw the stranger enemy take one of his mistress’ bands in his and press it to his lips, he was hurried away beyond all restraint. His rifle was in a moment leveled and the trigger as instantly pulled.

“Holloa!” exclaimed Henri Lavalette, as he heard the well-remembered sound of the bullet cutting the air close to his head.

“Ah! there is Gabriel!” cried Julie, starting at the report and turning her eyes toward the place, where he had now risen on his feet again, anxiously watching the result of his shot. And, as she spoke, she ran forward, followed by her brothers and sisters, shouting welcome to him who had (though they knew it not) sent so rude and so ruthless a herald in proof of his close neighborhood.

“Ah, that is the way Gabriel Balmat always announces his approach ever since he took up arms,” said Paul Corryeur to Lavalette, as the latter joined him and his helpmate, both hurrying in the direction of their now descending visiter.

“He must be a keen marksman to miss so closely the object he only wishes to pay a compliment to,” observed the Frenchman.

“Oh, he is one of the best shots in the valley!” said Paul.

“In that case I had a narrow escape,” thought the Frenchman, but he said nothing, being impressed with a painful suspicion that the bullet was certainly intended for his head, instead of the trunk of the pine tree which stood before him and in which it had lodged.

Gabriel instantly saw that he had missed his mark. His first impulse was to rush down and complete his bloody purpose with the unloaded weapon, but the shouts of his young friends, and above all the animated figure of Julie as she moved forward to welcome him excited an immediate and almost miraculous impulse of self-control. In an instant his pulse was steady, his brow smooth, his air unembarrassed; but his pale cheek and livid lip showed that the blood had not yet returned from his heart with the rapidity which a few moments before had hurried it into that great reservoir. He left his place and stepped quickly down, with an easy and guiltless manner, to meet his delighted mistress. At sight of her blooming countenance he was quite overpowered. He had never known her to deceive him, and he at once acknowledged the full force of her long experienced virtue and affection. The momentary doubts of her faith which had flashed across his mind on witnessing the incident of familiar gallantry which had raised his arm to murder the offender, vanished the first glance he threw on her. But his deadly hatred of the stranger was not for an instant shaken in the renewed confidence inspired by his mistress’ manner; and in the system of deep dissimulation which he presently adopted there was no abandonment of the design that a sudden impulse had prompted him to attempt.

[To be continued.]

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.

BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, AUTHOR OF “MARY DERWENT,” ETC.

It was midnight in London, the theatres were closed, the houseless wanderer sought the dark alley which had sheltered his wretchedness many a miserable night, and lay crouching to the wall as the watchman paced heavily by, lest he might be dragged forth from his hiding place and deprived of his sole remaining possession, personal liberty. Laboring men and honest trades-people had been long asleep, the side walks were deserted, save by the midnight reveler, the abject and the vicious, but through the fashionable thoroughfares carriage after carriage, laden with manly and beautiful life, swept by, their splendor but half revealed by the blaze of the enameled lamps they carried.

A fashionable house in the West End was thrown open to the distinguished of London that night, and, long after the street lamps had burned themselves out, lordly equipages rolled to and from the illuminated mansion. The rainbow light that streamed through the drapery of each tall window had fallen on many a beautiful form gliding up those steps, but in no instance had it touched a being more lovely than the fair young girl who paused with modest grace to gather up her scarf before she followed her companion, an elderly lady, through the labyrinth of statues that lined the broad staircase.

She reached the drawing-room; music was swelling through the glittering crowd assembled there—the strains of a light cheerful waltz. A glow rushed over her cheek, and the folds of azure gauze that covered her bosom rose and fell with its pleasant throbbing, till the sprig of white jasmine that gathered them at the throat trembled as if shaken by the night wind. Lucy Sprague was seventeen, and this was her first ball, the first time that she had ever stood an equal in the gay throng. It seemed like enchantment to her, the glitter of diamonds, the swelling music, and the crowd of breathing life, bathed in that glowing lamplight. It was no marvel that her bosom heaved and her soft eye sparkled as she gazed upon it.

As Lucy Sprague, the orphan heiress, had descended from her carriage, two young men were crossing the street, arm in arm. They had just come from a neighboring club house, and, if the light had been sufficient, an observer might have detected the glow of wine on their cheeks, and a sparkle of the eye which betrayed excitement if not confirmed inebriety. One of them, a dark haired young man, with midnight eyes and features such as one dreams of for a reveling poet, uttered an exclamation of delight as his observation was drawn to the young heiress, and springing forward he stood in the shadow, grasping his companion’s arm, and with his eyes riveted on the girl till she disappeared from the staircase.

“Come! fortunately I have an invitation,” he said, forcing his companion toward the door.

“Surely you will not attempt it; remember the wine you have taken. You are already half intoxicated.”

“With the beauty of that girl, boy, not with wine,—come!”

“No; if you wish to present yourself to the countess in this condition, I will be no party to the outrage; why, man, that hair is falling over your forehead like an unpruned grape vine.”

“Confound such comparison! You can think of nothing but grapes and the blood of grapes. I tell you the sight of that heavenly girl has rendered me sober as a cardinal,” and as he spoke the young man dashed back the raven curls that had, in truth, almost concealed his forehead, gave them a twist from the temples with his hand, and turned with a laugh to his friend.

“There, will that do? Am I sufficiently presentable?”

“As you will be to-night,” replied the more reasonable companion, smiling in spite of himself, for there was something so spirited in the handsome face turned toward him, so frank and determined, that he saw no hopes in contending against his project of entering the house, and could only resolve not to bear him company.

“So you will not go?”

“Most assuredly I will not!”

“Good night, then—breakfast with me to-morrow, and I will tell you all about her.”

“Good night.”

They shook hands. The next minute young Burke was ascending the staircase of that palace dwelling, composedly as if it had been his own home. He urged his way through the crowd, and reached the dancing room. The object of his search was there, sitting by the tall lady who had entered the house with her. Burke took a position directly opposite the window they occupied. Many a smiling look fell on him from the dancers as they whirled by; eyes brighter than the diamonds that flashed above them were turned upon him from the crowded walls, for Burke was the fashion. Though a younger son, wild, impulsive, and prodigal, his great personal beauty, his accomplishments, and the fascination of his address, rendered him a favorite even among the elder ladies, who could not make up their minds to discountenance him altogether, though terrified every day of their lives lest he might persuade some of their aristocratic daughters to throw themselves away and share his extravagance and poverty, or redeem him from the latter.

“Hey, Burke, are you here playing the wallflower?” said a young guardsman, as he turned from escorting his partner to a seat. “How is it that I have not seen you among the dancers?”

Burke muttered some vague answer to this address, and did not seem inclined to become more sociable. The guardsman was passing on, but that instant he caught a glimpse of Lucy Sprague, where she sat half concealed by her protectress. An expression of pleasant surprise came over his face, and, after convincing himself by a quick glance that it was impossible to cross the room, he bowed. Burke was looking at the young girl; he saw the smile accompanied by a gentle bend of the head with which she acknowledged his friend’s recognition, and turned eagerly toward him.

“Do you know the lady?” he said.

“Know her? of course I do; how beautiful she has grown! Shall I present you?”

“Certainly.”

The guardsman looked up. It was not usual that the fastidious young man before him permitted an introduction, now he seemed eager for it.

“But you must dance, I can see by her face that she is dying for a partner—unfortunately I am engaged.”

“With all my heart,” replied Burke; “but who is she?”

“An orphan of good descent, and heiress to a neat fortune. Stewart, the great banker, is her guardian, and that is his wife, sir. How her diamonds light up the beauty of my own sweet friend as she leans over her! There is no fear of losing cast in that quarter, she will set half the town crazy in a month.”

When the next quadrille struck up, Lucy Sprague stood in the circle with young Burke; her small feet trembling to the music as she waited her turn to dance, and her cheek glowing with blushes called forth from the admiring eyes that fell upon her from every direction, now that her beauty was rendered conspicuous by the attention of a partner so distinguished.

The dance was over and Burke still lingered by the side of his partner; the wine which he had drank, the brilliant beauty that he gazed upon, music and the voluptuous breath of flowers, all served to excite his wondrous powers of pleasing. The warm, wild poetry of his nature was aroused, it burned upon his lips, and gave expression to his eyes. The young girl listened, and it was enough. The rich tones of that voice seldom found their way to a heart which was not subdued by their eloquence and earnestness, for though wayward and dissipated, Burke was always sincere. His faults were the more dangerous that there was a dash of chivalry and much that was noble always mingled with them.

“Shall we dance again,” he murmured, “or would you prefer the air of this balcony, it overlooks the garden.”

“The balcony,” she said, with girlish eagerness, then checking herself she added, blushing, “the heat is oppressive here.”

Burke lifted the mass of crimson drapery that fell behind the seat they occupied, and, flinging open a sash, the young pair stepped forth to a full view of the moonlit garden, its shrubbery and the flowers that greeted them with their gentle breath. The music came softly from within, and all around lay the quiet moonlight. It was a dangerous hour for the heart of that guileless creature—dangerous for them both, for with him love was salvation, or injustice—with her, life or death; she was a woman, and to her love was but the beginning of immortality.

Lucy Sprague was alone in her chamber, her palm yet warm with the clasp of her partner’s hand when he had whispered “good night” at the carriage door. There was music still hovering about her senses—not that which had made her feet tremble on the chalked floor with child-like eagerness for the dance, but the heart thrilling music of a human voice—his voice who had conversed with her in the balcony. When she sunk to sleep that night a smile lay upon those lips as she dreamed; it broke over her whole face like sunlight on a magnolia flower. It was all a dream, a wild sweet vision, and, when the sunshine stole through the curtains of her bedchamber, the young girl awoke smiling, and with a blush on her cheek, a blush brought there by the memory of visions that had haunted her slumber—visions of a village church with the strong light shut out by creeping ivy, and two persons kneeling together in the holy calm thus created. She arose and hurried on her dress, for it seemed late and she was not certain at what hour young Burke would call.

“Lady, Mr. Stewart desires your presence in the library.”

Lucy bent her head to the footman who had delivered this message, and he turned away without observing the pallor which it brought to her face. She arose, put aside the drawing she had been employed upon, and made several other self-deluding excuses for remaining in the room, though her hand trembled more and more every object she touched, and her face became absolutely pale with apprehension. At length, she made a desperate effort and went down, more nervous and unpleasantly agitated than she had ever been in the whole course of her life. Mr. Stewart was a grave, gentlemanly person, who had outlived everything like impulsive feeling years before he became the guardian of that orphan girl. She came to him in his spacious library blushing as if she had done something to be ashamed of. The banker received his ward courteously as ever, though an anxious and stern expression lowered on his forehead, and he sat down evidently pondering some unpleasant subject in his mind. She knew what it was, and placed herself in the darkest corner of the room, mustering what courage she might for an interview which under any circumstances would have been embarrassing, and was now peculiarly so.

For some moments, the man of business sat in his easy-chair looking askance at the changing features of his ward, while he toyed with the pages of a volume which lay on a table where his right hand rested, evidently wishing to seem occupied with it alone.

“I wish to converse with you, Miss Sprague, on a subject which is far from a pleasant one to me at least. Mr. Burke has just left me.”

He paused as if expecting some reply, but Lucy sat with her eyes fixed upon the carpet, and but for the mutations of her cheek might not have seemed conscious of his address.

“Your silence convinces me of what I before suspected,” he said, more quickly, “that the young spendthrift was not authorized by you to make the assertion which he did make.”

Lucy looked up now, and the color settled to a red crimson on her cheek.

“Mr. Burke had my permission to speak with you,” she said, with gentle firmness; “my full, free permission; you would not have been troubled else.”

The banker turned in his chair and looked keenly in her face.

“It pains me to bear it,” he said, “for I can never consent to a union which must bring you to certain poverty, perhaps to a worse fate.”

Lucy turned pale, but met his eyes firmly, as one who had made up her mind and was not capable of abandoning a position once resolved on. The banker arose, sat down on the fauteuil she occupied, and took her hand with a degree of parental kindness never exhibited to her before.

“Let me entreat you,” he said, “reconsider this matter; you cannot know the character of this young man.”

“I know it better than his detractor; he acknowledges his faults, he conceals nothing,” said the young girl, gaining power of voice and confidence with each word; “you judge him harshly, sir.”

“I judge him as the world judges, with the experience of sixty years to aid my observation. I know that he will never become a good man, or a kind husband to any reasonable woman, much less to one beautiful, warm-hearted and gently nurtured as you have been.”

Lucy fell the tears start to her eyes, for some part of the banker’s speech had brought to her mind the memory of those who had indeed nurtured her infancy with such affection as young parents sometimes weave about an only child. She felt how beautiful a feeling domestic love was; how much of heaven might be gathered under our roof, and these reflections did not aid the banker in his attempt to dissuade her from the heart-dream that had in truth bewildered her better judgment.

“He is poor and extravagant,” persisted the banker, mistaking the source of her emotion.

“I have money enough for both; his fine taste need not be thwarted,” was the generous reply.

The banker pressed his lips together, for her firmness disturbed even his philosophy.

“A wine drinker, a heartless profligate in every thing.”

“Nay, heartless he is not—it is unjust, cruel, he does not deserve it—if he were all this, I have one firm defence to make for what I intend to do!” she broke off and her cheek became crimson beneath the tears that flowed over it.

“May I inquire what that reason is?” said the banker.

“I love him!”

“And are doubtless persuaded that he seeks you from love in return, and not for the thousands left by your father.”

There was a touch of sarcasm in the banker’s voice, and it fell harshly on the struggling heart of his ward.

“I know that he loves me for myself alone. I am as certain of it as that my pulse beats, or my voice is now filling your ear—I want no better proof than beats in my own bosom—heart answers to heart in this!”

There was something beautiful in the confidence which filled that young heart—beautiful but dangerous; for a moment the cold eye of her guardian lighted up with admiration, but he saw the precipice on which she was standing, and proved how deeply his interest was enlisted in her welfare by the trouble which he took to drag her away.

“I cannot consent to this sacrifice—will not consent.”

“I grieve that this is your determination,” said Lucy, with meek dignity, “but my word—my soul is pledged, I cannot war forever against his pleadings and my own heart. He has faults—I acknowledge he has—no one admits that more frankly than himself, but he will amend them. You do not know how warm and true his nature is!”

The banker shook his head.

“Let it be so, then,” she added, smiling through her tears, “I can love him in spite of his faults.”

“This is sheer infatuation,” muttered the banker, pacing up and down the library after his ward had left him, “but if she will fling herself away I am exonerated—there is no legal power by which it can be prevented.”

That dream was accomplished in the church which stood on her own beautiful estate. Lucy Sprague knelt by the side of that dangerous man. The good pastor who had held her at the baptismal fount pronounced the words of union, but his voice broke and he looked compassionately on the young creature kneeling at his feet, as if the task which he was performing were painful to his good heart. The ivy that crept over the little porch, and the tall windows were filled with a dirge-like wind, and the tablet sunk in the wall to her parents seemed like a scroll written over with reproaches.

She stood up, with the golden circlet on her finger, the veil of Mechlin lace swept to her feet, and the pearls on her neck lay motionless in the dim light. But when the bridegroom pressed his lips upon her hand and whispered a few words unheard by the rest—the pearls heaved upon the rosy swell of her throat, a happy blush shone through the gossamer veil, and when she went forth, when the bells pealed a welcome and children scattered a carpet of blossoms under her feet from the church door to the carriage; when the horses crushed them as they dashed off, a happier bride could never have breathed than Lucy Burke. And if love—true, warm-hearted, ill-regulated love—could render a heart happy hers might well be so; for if ever a human being doted on another, with the whole strength of his manhood, that being was Thomas Burke. She did him no more than justice there; his thoughts were all on the young and lovely woman he had wedded; not on her possessions—possessions which had now become his own, save a trifling settlement prepared without her knowledge by the guardian, and signed unread by the husband. No, no, Thomas Burke cared nothing for the money; it would have been better, perhaps, if he had indeed possessed more of the mercenary character imputed to him.

“My wife—my own sweet wife!” How strongly though musical the words fell upon her ear—how full of brooding tenderness were the soft eyes that dared not look upon the face of that manly made husband—so young, so gloriously beautiful—turned upon her with all that wealth of tenderness beaming through! They sat in silence, for the full tranquillity which brooded in their hearts was unfitted for any effort at conversation, save the fragmentary symbols so gently endearing which now and then broke from the lips as with linked hands the husband and wife looked forth on the dewy morning together.

“How changed every thing seems here,” murmured the bride; “I did not know that our own home was so full of pleasant objects; the garden smiles like an Eden this morning.”

“It is an Eden, and here,” said the young husband, kissing the forehead uplifted to his face, “here is my Eve—Adam never fell for one more lovely.”

“But may not the tempter creep in?” It was a vague question, brought on by thoughts of her guardian’s caution, and Lucy repented having spoken it before the words had left her lips, but he only kissed her again, and observed,

“Not while we love each other thus.”

They went into the house together, and sat down to breakfast, happy and confident in the future.

A year went by, Lucy Burke was in town once more, the most flattered beauty of a season. Her husband, too, was there; thoughtful manhood and happiness, pure and deep, had given new dignity to his person and a more finished grace to his manner. No man about town was more popular. There was none who gave such suppers, or entertained his friends so lavishly. His establishment was kept up on the most expensive scale; his horses were unrivaled, his equipage remarkable for its costliness, its splendor and the exquisite taste which even in magnificence avoided gorgeousness. Lucy’s fortune had not been enormous at first, though fully sufficient for splendor and occasional prodigality, but the style kept up in her home was princely, and could only have been warranted by the most abundant supply of money. Still the generous woman was happy; she knew herself to have been rich, and with no idea of the relative value of money and that which it purchases, never dreamed that her possessions were melting away like snow in the warm sunshine. She was flattered in the world, followed after and caressed to a degree that could not fail to excite her self love, especially as she saw that it gratified her husband. He was still to her the first and dearest object in existence; no music came to her ear so sweetly as his footfall on the stairs, when she could retire to her dressing-room and think of him in peace; no sight gladden her eye so surely as a glimpse of his fine person as she rode through the Park or passed him in her carriage while standing on the club-house steps. Amid all her triumphs, all her splendor, the well spring of her young heart was kept pure and free. The little hour spent with her husband over the breakfast table, in her pretty morning gown and her delicate face shaded by a deeply bordered cap of costly lace, was the most precious hour of the twenty-four to her. She had not yet repented the choice she had made, and wrote her guardian so.

And Thomas Burke, was he changed in his love of that generous woman?

No, no—changed he might be, but not in his love for her—there he kept firm, though his old habits were creeping insidiously back upon him, and all good resolutions melting from his heart beneath the influence of a town life and old associations.

At length this alteration in his habits forced itself on the attention of his wife. A shadow fell upon her heart, and occasionally her sweet face took a careworn expression; but with the anxiety came a strength and fervency of affection unknown in her heart before. She kept her pledge and did most truly love him in spite of his faults.

Lucy was sitting alone in her dressing-room one night—for she never allowed herself to retire until he returned home—she had taken a book and turned its leaves somewhat nervously, for hour after hour was wearing away and still he came not. At length, toward daylight, there came a double knock at the street door, which aroused the beautiful watcher, who had fallen asleep in her chair with her cheek nestled against the swansdown that lined her dressing robe. She started up—a pleasant smile stole to her before drowsy eyes, and she hastened to hear the porter unclose the door. He was too sound asleep in his leathern chair, and when the knock was again repeated Lucy girded the dressing gown around her waist with a silken cord which belonged to the festal garments she had just flung off, and taking a lamp hurried down stairs. She opened the door and there stood her husband flushed with wine; his hat off and the masses of raven hair felling over his brow damp and disheveled. He stooped unsteadily, and made a random effort to rescue his beaver from the ground. Lucy shrunk back, and every vestige of color left her face; he came into the hall, stumbling as he walked, holding out his hand to greet her with a vague smile which seemed fearfully out of place on those soulless features.

Lucy glanced hurriedly toward the porter’s chair. The occupant was sound asleep, breathing deep and full, like a man determined on his entire measure of rest, let circumstances go as they might.

Lucy looked upon his unconsciousness with a sense of relief. He need not be a witness to the degradation of his master; this thing could never happen again, and no one would have seen it but herself. Poor Lucy Burke! she knew for the first time how heavily lies the knowledge we would forget, but have not the power. A world of suffering passed through that gentle heart while she was gazing in the face of her husband, that face so pale and unnatural in its expression.

She took his arm soothingly and led him up stairs to her dressing-room. He flung himself into the deep chair which she had just left, smiled in her face with an expression that made her heart sick, and falling heavily back sunk to sleep on the cushion that had supported her, with his head resting on the crimson velvet yet warm from the pressure of her cheek.

The poor wife stood gazing sorrowfully upon him, her meek eyes were full of tears, and after a little she stole away to a corner of the room, knelt down by a pile of cushions, and, smothering her sobs in their silken billows, seemed to be praying with painful intensity. At length she arose to her feet, with an air of gentle resignation, and gliding toward her husband, who still slumbered on in the dull heavy sleep of inebriety, she bent down and removing the damp hair from his forehead, kissed it. Then she stole away into her bedchamber and remained till morning in its gorgeous gloom watching him through the open door, but herself concealed all the time lest he might awake and be abashed in her presence.

Alas! poor wife, this unhappy night was but the prelude to many more equally wearing, equally humiliating to that true heart.

And now the beautiful face of Lucy Burke grew anxious with care and suffering. She no longer frequented the gay circles that would have won her forth from the splendid solitude in which her days were spent, but her step grew languid in that sumptuous home, her meek eyes dim with watching. Almost every night that irregular knock summoned her to be the witness of her husband’s degradation. But she hoped on, whispering to herself, “it will be better soon, my true love must win him back, for still I do love him in spite of his faults.”

The guardian’s prophecy was accomplished at length. Ruin, total and irretrievable ruin, swept over the thoughtless husband. Ruin that overthrew the household gods from his hearthstone and left his young wife standing amid the fragments, astounded by the magnitude of difficulties that surrounded her; terrified by a dread of losing the object dearest to her on earth by some act of that law which crushes the poor man as it does the felon, she sat trembling within her desolate home, miserable, but firm in the deep affection that no time, no prosperity or misfortune could shake for an instant.

The last and most cruel blow came—her husband was in prison. When the young wife heard this she arose, gathered her mantle about her, and went forth into the street on foot and unattended.

There is in the heart of London a huge building, dark and fearfully gloomy, uprearing itself and frowning over the cheerful dwellings and beautiful specimens of architecture that surround it, like a blasted fortress cumbering a beautiful country with its huge proportions. The very sight of this prison-house is enough to make the soul shudder. Many a wretched heart has withered within its walls or broken in the intense agony of its sufferings; many a head has turned gray while watching those damp, naked walls, year after year, till hope and even the wish for liberty grew feeble with suffering. Man’s inhumanity to his fellow creatures was written on every massive wall, sunk deep in the cold flags worn by the prisoner’s foot. There Shylock creditors demanded their pound of flesh, and there the profligate, the unfortunate and the poverty stricken herded alike in gloom and misery. There the villain gloried in his sin; unblushing vice chuckled over former evil deeds close by the honest unfortunate, who, bowed down by shame and sorrow, ate his scanty portion in tears, longing for a grave scarcely more terrible than that which immured him.

Within these walls, a prisoner, with no hopes of release, lay Thomas Burke. They had given him a cell to himself, and there in solitude he lay tossing to and fro on his straw pallet; ever and anon he sat up and looked upon the bolted door with bloodshot eyes and lips that trembled as he gazed.

She came at last, and the sound of her footfall on his dungeon floor stole to that feverish heart like dew upon a bruised flower.

The young wife sat down by his couch and tried to force back the tears that lay so heavily on her heart, but as she laid her hand upon his forehead and gazed into his face, so changed with the midnight revel and his own bitter thoughts that a stranger had not recognized it, sobs burst from her bosom, and bending down she kissed him again and again, as if she feared that he might deem them a reproach.

He turned away and muttered hoarsely to himself.

“Can nothing be done—must we remain here forever?” said the wife, conquering her tears.

The young man sat up and made an effort to appear calm.

“Leave me, Lucy,” he said, “leave me to the fate I have so well merited. You are not quite destitute. Thanks to your guardian for that—not to me, wretch that I am—I never thought of providing for you—I who loved you so—”

Lucy started up and a flood of joy rushed over her face.

“And have we anything left? where? how? tell me, my husband. I thought that all was gone.”

“There is a settlement of some thousands, I do not know how many, but enough for your comfort. So he told me at the time—I never read it!”

Lucy did not hear him out, she started up, tied on her bonnet with hands that trembled like aspens, and knocked hurriedly on the door. They let her out and Burke was alone again.

“She, too, has left me,” he muttered in a choked voice, and falling back on his couch he wept like a child.

Once more the young wife stood before her guardian, not with the warm confidence which had formerly strengthened her in that presence, but trembling like a frightened bird, and pale with terror lest her suit might be denied.

It was denied, at first sternly and with words of calm reproach, but there was something in the agony of spirit with which she prayed—a self devotion so touchingly holy, that even the man of business was moved to compassion. She saw it in his face, and falling at his feet gathered both his hands between hers and covered them with tears and murmured such words of gratitude as no human being could have resisted.

“Be it so,” he said at length, and for the first time in twenty years the man of wealth felt that his voice shook, while he could scarcely see the pale, joyful features uplifted at his words, from the mist that had crept over his eyes. “Be it so, but when his debts are paid where will you go? how live?”

“Where he goes there will I be, and where he dies there will I be buried.” Her face was like that of an angel as she thus adopted the most beautiful poetry of love.

The banker laid his hand on her head and murmured, “Poor child—poor child—how unworthy is he of such love.”

“Not unworthy! oh, not unworthy!” said the wife pleadingly, “he will redeem the past now—I am sure he will.”

The banker shook his head, but arose and supporting that feeble creature with his arm they entered a carriage together.

“Joy, joy, my husband! You are free again, free and not so very destitute—look here!”

Lucy had a thousand pound note in her hand, but she trembled so from head to foot that when she held it toward her astonished husband it fell fluttering to the stone flags.

He did not pick it up then, for a dearer burden lay against his heart—his wife—his own true wife—who wept upon his bosom as she had never wept before in her whole existence.

A gallant ship with outspread sails was careering on the Atlantic, and many a dim eye turned sadly toward the horizon where the British Isle had last appeared.

“It is gone,” said Burke, turning away that no one might witness his anguish, “we have no longer a home.”

“But we are together,” whispered his wife, nestling her hand into his, “we are together.”

A slight cough interrupted her speech, and when it went away there was a fever spot burning redly on her cheek. The husband saw it and his lip quivered.

“This air blows chilly from the water, let us go down,” he said, and with his arm supporting her waist the husband and wife went into the cabin together.

Another lapse of time. The husband and wife were in a foreign city with strange faces all around them. They had taken rooms at a hotel, but the tramp of so many feet, the noise and bustle irritated the invalid and frightened sleep from her pillow.

“Oh that we could be alone,” she murmured turning languidly in her easy-chair with the restlessness of disease. “If I were quite alone with you, Thomas, with no human face to look at me save yours, this fever would go away.”

“We must be alone, this noise renders you worse every day. Try to rest a little till I come back again.”

“I knew that he would reform; how good he is, how happy we shall be,” murmured the invalid. As she closed her eyes a tear struggled through their lashes, but it was born of happy feelings and she slept after.

Burke went out to a reading-room and found the advertisement that he sought for, “A house to let ready furnished in a retired part of the city.” That night Lucy was removed to her new home. The repose and stillness fell refreshingly on her while she was supported to the chamber prepared for her reception, and she smiled as they laid her on the snowy bed, but there was something in her face that startled the husband, a chill came upon him and he turned away to weep.

“Why do you look so sorrowful,” said the invalid smiling once more. “I am better now every thing is so quiet—to-morrow, next day perhaps, I shall be much better, it is only fatigue, you know,” her eyes closed as she spoke, and that wretched man heard a sound in her breath that chilled him to the heart. He sunk upon his knees and the bed shook beneath the violence of his grief.

That night Thomas talked wildly to his wife as she lay so still upon her couch; but she gave him no answer, though the voice of his agony might have kindled a stone to compassion. She breathed not—she moved not—the pillow on which her cold cheek rested had neither wrinkle nor fold in its snow-white cover. The winding sheet that fell over her lay motionless, like folds of marble around a statue. When he arose in his agony of repentance and pressed his quivering mouth to her lips they chilled him to the heart, and he felt for the first time that she was dead, for “it was the first cold kiss she had ever given him.”

BY G. D. PATTERSON.

BY CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.

A STORY OF PENNSYLVANIA.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

CHAPTER I.

On a pleasant slope of a hill in Chester county stands an old stone mansion, a staid, venerable structure, whose small windows, huge eaves, and antique doorways tell of the colonial times. The house is indeed in its second century, having been built about twenty years prior to the old French war, by a Quaker farmer of some fortune, when on the eve of marriage. Here he lived until age overtook him, an exemplary member of his sect, happy in his family, and happy also in the consciousness of having striven to do good; for Friend Paxson—such he was called in the homely language of his people—had the kindest of hearts and an ear ever open to misery. No beggar went from the kitchen porch until his case had been inquired into, and relief administered if the object were worthy, or, even being unworthy, were very necessitous. And a kind admonition from the mild Quaker was known, more than once, to have led to the reformation of those who had defied law and been deaf to the reproaches of friends. Friend Paxson eventually grew to be regarded by the neighborhood in the light of a father. If an erring son were to be reformed the good Quaker’s counsel was called in. If any of the young people showed a disposition to put off the habiliments of the sect, the gentle authority of Friend Paxson was invoked. In the hour of joy, at the couch of sickness, by the bedside of the dying he was alike the friend and comforter, a humble pattern of the earlier disciples of him who went about doing good. He carried out to their full extent the forgiving doctrines of the gospel. Once, a drunken laborer insulted him: Friend Paxson sent his needy wife firewood for the winter, and the man came in tears and begged his pardon.

What the good Friend was to other men his wife was to other women. The same kind heart beat in each: the same humanity characterized both. On one point only they differed, and on that but rarely. With her sex’s greater tenderness, the wife was sometimes disposed to pass over offences leniently, which a sterner sense of justice in the husband regarded in a stronger light; for if undue severity in any thing were the fault of Friend Paxson, it was in the almost Judaical strictness with which he maintained the peculiar discipline of his people. Few men there are whose minds are not warped in some way and he could more easily forgive a breach of the moral law than an infraction of the rules of his sect.

The aged couple had an only daughter, a sweet, gentle creature, the very counterpart of her mother. But under the plain dress and rigid etiquette of her people, Rachel Paxson had a heart alive to every womanly sympathy, one that felt it could love, and, if need be, suffer. She was just such a being as Wordsworth has described in those exquisite verses part of which we have placed at the head of this chapter. Nor was it long before the affections of that true heart were fixed, and with the concurrence of her parents. The one who had won her plighted troth was the orphan son of an early friend of her father, who, left destitute at an early age, had been taken in and brought up by the kind Quaker. The children had played together when neither was ashamed to gather butter cups in the fields, and parting to go to school at a distance, did not meet again until after a separation of several years. In that period Rachel had sprung up into a graceful but timid girl, and Henry Abbott had become a tall, ruddy, frank, bold stripling. We need not tell how these two young people, living together in the same farm-house, in a neighborhood where there were few to associate with, gradually came to regard each other with an affection different from that of friends. By walks down the lane on the Sabbath; by hours under the old buttonwood at starlight; by a thousand little acts of kindness mutually extended to each other, they learned to love. The old folks looked on and said nothing; but when Rachel, blushing as if ashamed to rehearse the story even to herself, hid her face on her mother’s lap and told that Henry had sought her love, the mother tenderly raised her up, and, kissing her forehead, said,

“Thou hast done right. Thy father and I will not say nay. Henry is very dear to us, and I am glad thee thinks he can make thee happy.”

The tear of emotion that fell from the speaker’s eye on the cheek of her daughter was more eloquent than her words.

So it was arranged that the young couple should be married when Henry should attain his twenty-first and Rachel her eighteenth year.

CHAPTER II.

Oh! the first love of youth. Poets have sung of it and rhapsodists eulogized it, but they who have once felt that emotion find no language, in after life, to do it justice. There is something so holy, something so aspiring, something so free from the base alloy of earth in the first serious passion we experience, that we often think it is wisely sent by God to lift us heavenward. He who truly loves is so far forth a better man. We never knew one under the influence of a first affection whose heart was not expanded to all humanity, and who did not feel more keenly the miseries as well as sympathize more fervently with the joys of his brother men.

And there is a poetry in a first affection such as we never again experience. It flings a glow around all things, brightening the hill side, beautifying the vale and making those we love still lovelier. How can we describe its emotions? It is like going out early on a fresh morning in summer, when the dew on the grass, the songs of birds, the breezy woods and the fragrance rising from every flower, make the heart run over, only, that the joy and gush of feeling in a first love is infinitely more ecstatic. And the memory of those hours lives with us through life; and though we may form other ties and be happy, yet we look back on this as a traveler on a pleasant hill, when his journey is done, gazes afar on the smiling meadow whence he started at morning.

The love of Henry and Rachel was of this character. To be by her side listening to her mild voice, or to walk with her leaning relyingly on his arm, even though no words were spoken, was bliss. And, with Rachel, to do any little kind act for him, to watch for his return when absent, though blushing to acknowledge her eagerness to her own heart, was happiness supreme. No jealousy ever disturbed their affection; no difference planted barbs in their hearts to rankle in after years: they were like two rivers, that rise in different hills, but meeting flow on through a pleasant plain, bright, unruffled and fringed with woods and flowers.

But the hand of fate was forging a bolt that was soon to destroy this happiness. We have said that Henry was frank and bold: we should have added, he had a heart indignant at outrage. At the school where he was educated he had, unconsciously to himself, imbibed notions scarcely compatible with the peaceful character of his sect. He had learned to read with enthusiasm the lives of the great military commanders of his own and former times; and over the pages of Plutarch he had often dreamed wild, boyish dreams of glory. But these visions gave way, on his return home, to a more engrossing passion. When, however, the Revolutionary war broke out, and every week brought some new tale of outrage, or some fresh story of patriotic resistance, the young man’s bosom began again to glow with his old feelings. Rachel saw them and endeavored to check them. She triumphed; but a second time his passion awoke more powerful than before. It may appear strange that Henry, knowing the inflexible sentiments of her father on points of discipline, gave way for an instant to temptation; but it must be remembered it was not only one, but many passions which were at work in his heart—love of glory, the thirst of youth for enterprise, indignation at wrong, and, lastly, the conviction that our oppressed country needed the aid of all her sons. But even with these influences, the love he bore for Rachel might have conquered, but for an incident which decided his wavering course beyond the possibility of change.

He was, one evening, returning from Philadelphia, whither he had been on business, when he saw a party of refugees—for the country was already infested with these men—robbing a poor man’s house and barn, who, tied to a tree, was forced to see his wife and little ones driven from their home in tears, without the possibility of help. Henry came so suddenly on them as to be unperceived. His natural indignation at wrong prompted him instantly to rescue the man, and he succeeded accordingly in cutting the bonds before he was discovered. The two then made a successful rush for the muskets of the refugees, which had been set against the side of the house while their owners were engaged in plunder. The parties were two to one, but the result was not long doubtful; for the man, smarting with his wrongs, shot the leader of the refugees at once, and Henry, suddenly assailed by two, was forced to despatch one of his antagonists in the same way. The rest then took to flight.

But no sooner had he turned away from the laborer, after receiving his grateful thanks, than the consequences of his late act rose up before him. He had done that which would forever cut him off from his sect, and which, he feared, would bring down the marked disapprobation of his benefactor.

It was night when he reached home, and the family had retired. Before breakfast, on the ensuing morning, the story had reached the farm-house, and Henry met at the table, for the first time in his life, countenances of cold disapprobation. He turned to Rachel. She looked anxious and alarmed. Several times he resolved to broach the subject, but pride or an evil fate prevented him. On rising the father calmly bade him remain while the women left the room. What passed at the interview it is needless to tell in detail. The benefactor was, for once, stern, perhaps unjust, but he deemed he was doing right, and he spoke the truth when he said his heart had never been so pained. Henry endeavored to defend himself, and in so doing assailed the Quaker’s prejudices. A discussion ensued: the young man became warm, because he felt his excuses were unjustly disregarded: the inflexible Friend, knowing that his conduct in this affair would be canvassed by the neighborhood, and believing himself called on to cast away any earthly weakness he might feel, pronounced sentence on his protégé, by telling him never thereafter to think of Rachel as a wife.

Henry left the room, smarting with a sense of wrong. He sought an interview with Rachel, but it was denied. Neither mother nor daughter were visible. Had he waited a few hours he would have learned that they had been forbidden to see him by the husband and father, but who soon relented sufficiently to withdraw this prohibition; and he might from this have drawn a hope that eventually he would be forgiven. But he did not wait. In the bitterness of his heart, thinking that all had turned against him, he left the mansion, and before night had enlisted in the army. From that hour, the doors of the farm-house were shut against him irrevocably. Even Rachel’s mother, whose heart at first had secretly blamed her husband for over strictness, gave Henry up, and the poor girl was led to weep over his dereliction and her own breaking heart in the solitude of her chamber. And no one can tell her sufferings who has not experienced the struggle between notions of duty which lead one way, and the pleadings of a heart which would take her another.

CHAPTER III.

It was a mild September afternoon, and the tea-table was spread at Friend Paxson’s. The linen of snowy white swept nearly to the floor, leaving space only for the claw feet of the walnut table to be visible. A pleasant breeze stole in at the open window, occasionally waving the damask cloth, and filling the room with coolness and fragrance. The slanting beams of the setting sun, breaking through the bowed shutters of another window, slept on the floor by the side of a cat that lay quietly purring. By a third window sat the mother, soberly attired in drab, her white kerchief neatly folded across her bosom, and her cap of studious neatness rising above a brow placid and nearly unwrinkled, and suggesting thoughts of a life of gentle benevolence, even without the meek blue eyes and kind motherly expression which dwelt on the face. She had just put her needle in its silver sheath, and laid her knitting in her lap, as if in thought, when a step was heard and her husband entered the room.

He was her exact counterpart, only that his broad, square brow, though more ample than hers, was, if possible, a shade less sunny; but the smile which rose to his face on entering was kind, open, and eloquent of many years of loving affection for her he was now approaching. His first inquiry showed that he had been absent all day, and how youthful was still the affection he entertained for his wife.

“Art thou better, Hannah,” he said, in a mild, kind tone, seating himself opposite to her, and taking her hand in his, “than when I went away this morning?”

“I feel much better, it was but a morning headache,” she said, kindly, with her eyes bent lovingly on him. “We have been wailing for thee this hour. I thought thee would be hungry, so I got James to go out this afternoon and he brought in some fine woodcock.”

A pleasant smile, showing how much this delicate little attention was appreciated, glowed on her husband’s face. But it soon faded. It was evident there was care at his heart.

“What ails thee?” said the wife, in a tone of some anxiety. “Art thou sick?” and she rose from her chair as if to hasten to him.

“No, Hannah, but my heart is heavy. I am in a strait and know not what to do. I have looked within, but all is doubt.”

He paused, but his wife remained silent, though a look of anguish was on her face. Her husband soon resumed.

“I have heard that the English meditate a secret attack on Wayne—thou knowest Anthony, he was a wild lad in his youth—and, if he is not apprised of it, he will be murdered with all his troops in cold blood. The intelligence I have is sure, I heard it by accident, and none know it. Now what can I do? Shall I sit here and let my fellow men be butchered, or shall I go and warn Wayne? If I do the latter, may he not await the attack, and I thus become an abettor in the crime of war? Yet, if he should be murdered,” and the Quaker, forced out of his usual composure, arose and paced the room, “and the good cause suffer!—for Washington surely is in the right, much as I disavow resistance—since we had better submit to wrong than right it forcibly.”

He paused in his walk, his countenance exhibiting the struggle in his bosom. And well as he knew his own heart, the good Quaker was yet ignorant of all the influences now at work in it. His soul was in the American cause, and he had already begun secretly to look on Henry’s devotion to it with less stern disapprobation than at first. Though he reprobated the war, he daily prayed that the king’s heart might be turned, for so he innocently hoped to settle the difficulty. And now, when the disastrous battle of the Brandywine was fresh in his memory, and when he had seen day after day, in his own immediate neighborhood, the rapacity of the British soldiery, the idea that a detachment of his country’s troops, many of them yeomanry of his own acquaintance, should fall victims to a midnight massacre, stirred his soul to its depths. Had he been a less strict sectarian, or possessed one whit less benevolence of heart, the conflict would soon have been over. With his wife the question was instantly decided, and her inclination, unknown to herself, furnished her with arguments. But it is ever thus with human nature.

“I see thy way clear, Joseph,” she said; “that is, I am prompted how to act if I was placed as thou art. I would send instant word to Wayne. We must not,” she continued, rising, the color mounting to her mild cheek in her excitement; “we must not sit quietly and suffer our brothers to be murdered, or their blood will be on our heads. Warn Wayne to fly, for he cannot withstand the enemy, and thy duty is done.”

The husband was thoughtful for an instant, and he raised his eyes as if in silent prayer. Suddenly a light flashed over his face, dissipating the look of care, as the sun scatters the morning mists from the valley.

“The bright sunshine,” be said, solemnly, “hath shown my path. I see my way before me. The feeling of duty is strong upon me to send word to Wayne, and prevent this foul crime.”

“But who canst thou send?” said his wife, in perplexity.

The husband caught her mood, for he saw that he had no one in the household whom he could trust on so delicate a mission. A silence ensued.

“If Henry were here—” began the wife, but suddenly, recollecting the forbidden subject, she stopped.

“Say on, Hannah,” said the husband, mildly, and his eye me hers. There was something in it, apart from the words, which encouraged her to proceed.

“Then if Henry were here he might be trusted, or if we could send James to camp he might find out Henry, and so the boy’s story be credited.”

“Nay,” said her husband, shaking his head; “James is over wild now, and I would not place him in the way of temptation. Would indeed that Henry were here.”

He spoke gently when he mentioned the youth’s name, for in the last half hour much light had broken in on him. We never feel for others so much as when we have been tempted in the same way; and the late struggle in his mind had revealed to him, clearer than he had ever guessed before, the character of the young man’s feelings. And that revelation brought with it charity for what the Quaker still regarded as a heinous error.

“I will go myself,” he said, after a pause. “They will believe me, and I will urge Wayne to retreat, and perhaps may thus save bloodshed.”

“You will come to harm, surely,” said his wife, tremulously, alarm depicted on every feature of her countenance.

“God will be with me,” said he, in a tone of mild reproach, “whether there or here. A slight meal, Hannah, and then I will depart.”

The wife said no more, but bowed meekly, for she felt the justice of the remark. In a minute Rachel entered. The eyes of both parents turned gently on her, and the father noticed for the first time how very pale she had become. His heart smote him. He had never before seen, in all its force, that resigned look, nor guessed from it the suffering of his innocent daughter. He heaved an involuntary sigh, but said nothing of his intended journey, leaving that for his wile to explain after he had departed.

CHAPTER IV.

The sky had become overcast, and a sharp rain was falling when, toward nine o’clock, the good Quaker reached the camp of Wayne. He was instantly conducted to the general, who heard his story with attention.

“Ha!” exclaimed Wayne. “This must be looked to. Your information is positive, Mr. Paxson, and we are indebted to you for this warning, which I hope may be timely. But excuse me for a minute,” and, turning to an aide-de-camp, he issued orders to push out videttes in every direction, and patrol the road leading to the enemy’s camp, as well as to post two new picquets, one on a third path leading to the Warren Tavern, and another on a road in the rear.

The position of Wayne was about two miles from the Paoli Tavern, in a spot inaccessible by public roads. Here he was awaiting the arrival of Gen. Smallwood to move on the enemy in the direction of the river Schuylkill, but the Quaker’s information at once thwarted his plans. He saw that the British would probably outnumber him, and that no alternative was left but to hazard a precarious battle or to retreat. The latter was an alternative little agreeable to his fiery disposition. The men were happily already under arms, awaiting the order to march, and he now issued the command for them to form. At this instant a patrol dashed into camp, with his horse smoking, and brought the intelligence that the enemy was advancing, in great force, along the Swedesford road. Instantly all the lion of Wayne’s nature was aroused.

“Major,” he said, turning to an officer beside him, “gallop to Colonel Hempton—the enemy are pushing for our right—tell him to wheel by sub-platoons to the right, and, marching off by the left, so gain the road leading on the top of the hill toward the White Horse.” The major bowed, withdrew, sprung into his saddle, and went off like an arrow.

“We must form the light infantry and the first regiment, gentlemen, on the right. These, with the horse, ought to enable us to cover the retreat.”

The troops were rapidly marshaled to their places, Wayne himself remaining with them. In a few minutes the British were seen advancing through the rain.

“Fire!” thundered the general.

The rattling volley swept along the line and was answered by one even more deafening from the foe, who, perceiving the scanty numbers opposed to them, cheered and dashed forward.

“In God’s name, why don’t Hempton move?” exclaimed Wayne, perceiving that, though the colonel had formed his troops according to order, he did not put them in motion. “Tell Colonel Hempton,” he continued, turning to an aide, “to move instantly.”

The British were now pouring on in resistless numbers, and the retreating troops could not be covered until the fourth regiment had been added to the detachment under Wayne. The contest soon became animated. The enemy pressed on with great vigor, huzzaing at his evident victory. Colonel Hempton had only now begun to move tardily, and the line was continually giving way before the conquerors. Wayne was every where, ordering the officers, animating the men, and rallying the broken line. But, though he succeeded in making good his retreat, with the detachment immediately under him, he could not save all his troops. Many of them, detached from the ranks and losing their way, were overtaken and bayoneted, notwithstanding their cries for quarter. Some of the sick fell into the hands of the foe, and these were butchered in their beds. In one portion of the field, the victory was changed into a massacre. In vain the conquered laid down their arms, in vain they plead for mercy, they were recklessly stabbed to the heart by the English soldiery. To this day the events of that night make the reader shudder; to this day, the name of Gray, the British leader, is execrated in popular tradition as the author of the Paoli massacre.

CHAPTER V.

The good Quaker had seized the opportunity, when Wayne turned to issue his orders, and left the camp, for now that his purpose had been accomplished he was anxious to escape from the vicinity of the expected strife. As he moved along the lines of soldiery, his eye wandered to and fro in search of Henry, for his heart glowed to behold again the son of his adoption, but the young man was invisible.

The rapidity of the attack scarcely allowed the farmer, however, to extricate himself from the soldiery, but he pushed on as fast as possible, and, though the firing soon grew rapid and even once or twice appeared approaching, he escaped becoming involved in the mass of the retreating force. Half an hour passed, and he fancied himself rid of the contending parties, when suddenly, at a turn of the road, he came in sight of a band of English soldiery, detached from their ranks, as he at first supposed, either by accident or to execute some duty. But a few minutes satisfied him that they were a marauding party holding the restraints of discipline, for the time, at defiance.

“Hilloo!” said the sergeant of the party, speaking thick, like a man intoxicated. “Whither so fast, old Broadbrim? Does the good dame know thee is out to-night?” and he mimicked the address of the sect, as a buffoon would on the stage.

“What wouldst thou have?” said the old Friend, mildly, drawing in his rein, and boldly confronting the man.

“By G——d, it’s the old rascal who told Wayne you were coming to attack him!” said one of the party, dressed in the uniform of an American soldier, stepping to the front—“I saw him pass to the general’s tent. Yes! it’s the same white horse and the sneaking, hypocritical face under his hat.”

“James Wilson,” said the Quaker, in a tone of mingled surprise and reproof, eyeing the deserter, “art thou here! Hast thou sold, like Esau, thy birthright, and joined the men whom, an hour ago, thou wast wishing to encounter in deadly fight? I fear,” he added, turning to the party, “that one who would betray his country would not stop to add falsehood to treachery.”

“Hold your canting tongue,” said Wilson, with an oath, striking the unresisting Quaker across the mouth. “He dare not deny that he told the enemy of your approach. Ask him.”

“I have nothing to say,” replied the Quaker, mildly but firmly, for he would not even then prevaricate, “except that James here oweth me a grudge, as he has openly said heretofore, for ridding the neighborhood of him on account of certain evil practices of his,” and he wiped the blood from his mouth.

This conversation had passed far more rapidly than we have related it; indeed so rapidly that the whole of the party had just come up as it was finished. Hot from the field of battle, drunk with liquor and the blood of those they had already massacred, and seeing in the person before them a rebel and a member of an unpopular sect, the soldiery did not wait to inquire further, but, with a wild laugh of derision, sprung on the Quaker, dragged him from his horse, buffetted him, and had already raised more than one bayonet to his breast, when the drunken sergeant interposed.

“Don’t,” he said, hiccuping at every few words, “don’t—let—us massacre the man. You’re British sol—diers, remember—my brave—lads. He’s a rebel and a spy—and damme—let’s hang him—that’s the way to punish the king’s enemies. We’ll leave him here—a terror—to all evil doers.”

This proposition was hailed with a drunken shout, the girth of his own saddle was fabricated into a halter, and the unoffending victim dragged to the nearest tree. He maintained his firmness in this extremity, for fear was a stranger to the old Quaker’s heart. But he thought of his wife and daughter, and resolved to make an effort for his life.

“What harm have I done ye?” he said. “I am a man of peace, and have had neither part nor lot in this unhappy conflict. Besides, I know that, even if I have offended against your laws of war, I cannot be punished in this summary way. What you do is nothing short of murder.”

Those of the party who still retained glimmerings of sobriety, saw the force of what he said, and interposed.

“Let him then deny that he visited Wayne,” said Wilson, craftily, “and we will let him go. Shan’t it be so, comrades?”

The old Quaker paused. A single sentence would save his life. But that sentence would be an untruth He did not long hesitate.

“I have nothing to say. May God forgive you. Oh! Hannah, Rachel,” he exclaimed, with a natural burst of emotion, “would I could see ye again—but the will of Heaven be done.”

They hurried him toward the tree amid drunken shouts and laughter, the sergeant himself holding the halter, and another moment would have sent the spirit of the mild Quaker to its God; but at this crisis the sharp rattle of a musket was heard, and the sergeant, leaping up like a deer, fell dead to the ground, dragging with him his victim.

“Huzza for the States—give it to ’em, my lads. Use the butt of your muskets, you that have no bayonets. Down with the murderers.”

As that clear, bold voice rose on the air, a half dozen armed men appeared, like apparitions, in the bend of the road, and dashing in among the astonished soldiery, some with fixed bayonets and some with clubbed muskets, carried consternation before them. The intoxicated foe made no resistance. A few fell, smote down while gazing stupidly on the assailants, and the rest took to flight, darting wildly through the brush into the woods, as if there were the safest covert.

“My father—my benefactor—he is dead!” said the voice which had before spoken, but now its tone was one of agony, and Henry, for it was he who had come up thus opportunely, knelt by the side of the prostrate and senseless Friend. But in a minute the good Quaker revived and opened his eyes, having only been stunned by falling on a rock that shot up out of the soil.

“Henry, is it thou?” said he kindly.

The young officer gazed a moment in astonishment for there was forgiveness, regret and love all united in that tone and look. A tear gushed into his eye. The old man arose to his elbow and opened his arms, and Henry fell into them and wept like a child.

“Let us forget the past,” said the good old Quaker, at length. “I have erred, my son, but I see now my error.”

“Oh! no—father, protector, my best of friends,” said the impetuous young man, “I alone was to blame. I was too hasty—I went away in anger—”

“Then let us forget, or remember only to profit by it. I see now, my child, that there are ordinations of Providence far above our understanding. By doing what hitherto I thought a sin, thou hast been made the instrument to save my life. But God’s ways are not our ways, and henceforth I will be more humble, by his assistance, and more distrustful of my poor, weak judgment. He made and loveth us all—why should we then not forgive each other?”

In such conversation passed the few first moments after his deliverance.

It was by accident that Henry had arrived in time to save his benefactor. He had been separated from the retreating army, and in seeking them had come across the party of drunken soldiery.

The lover was not long in inquiring after Rachel. The father told all—how that she had suffered by Henry’s absence, and how that his own heart had first begun to reproach him. He no longer forbade the visits of the young officer.

“It is against the discipline of our sect,” he said, “for me to give thee a daughter, but I will not say thee nay. Take her, and the blessing of the Almighty be upon thee. I could have wished that thou hadst not departed from the simplicity of our people, but the things that seem even as a cross to us are often for the best. In heaven there will be no sects.”

As the old man spoke these words they reached the point where it was necessary to separate, for Henry’s duty would not permit him to see his benefactor home, nor did they consider any further peril probable. The old Quaker raised his hands and uttered a silent prayer for his young friend, and thus they parted—both better men than when they met.

Our story draws to a close. Henry left the army the next year, on account of a severe wound which incapacitated him from service. He soon after married Rachel, for which she was, as of course, disowned. But both still continued to attend the meetings of their fathers; and, in due time, on proper application, they were taken into the Society. On Henry’s part, this was done as much out of deference to his father-in-law as from choice. He gradually, however, as he grew older, became more sedate; and, dying at a good age, left behind him a family whose descendants, to this day, wear the formal cut and broad hat of the Quakers.

A MEXICAN PATRIOTA’S LAMENT.

BY THE POOR SCHOLAR.

TAKEN ON NEW YEAR’S DAY.

BY MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

It was the first of January, 1843. A carriage drew up to the door of the Astor House, and into it stepped two young men—both well dressed, both handsome, but very different in feature, manner and style. The most striking in appearance of the two was a tall, dashing, manly looking fellow, with bold black eyes and hair of the same hue—a dark but brilliantly colored complexion, a Roman nose, and a mouth expressive of great resolution and energy of character.

The other, more modest, more unassuming in mien, was, perhaps on that very account, by far the most interesting of the two. His head and face were perfectly Grecian; a profusion of remarkably beautiful hair of a light brown, fine, soft and wavy, seemed to harmonize with the expression of his hazel eyes and his delicately chiseled mouth. His whole tone in look and demeanor was that of refinement, purity, moral and intellectual elevation.

After ordering the coachman to drive to Union Square, they commenced a conversation, of which the following is an abstract.

“Do you know, Fred,” said the last mentioned of the two, “I have a sort of presentiment that my fate will be decided this day for life?”

“And do you know, Charlie, that I too have ‘a sort of presentiment’ of the very same kind? For I fully intend this day, if appearances warrant, to propose to the beautiful widow in Union Square.”

“Beautiful! You are joking! Where can her beauty be?”

“In her diamonds, to be sure. They are a fortune in themselves, if real, and as I intend to have a pretty close survey of them to day, I cannot be deceived on that point.”

“But you do not seriously mean to marry the woman! Why she is almost an idiot, and old enough to be your mother.”

“So much the better for me, my dear fellow. The truth is, Vernon, my purse is getting low, and my bills are getting long, and if I don’t fill the one and settle the other soon—why I shall be settled myself, that’s all.”

“But how can you possibly hope to succeed? Senseless as she is, she has a certain cunning, which will be sure to penetrate your motives.”

“Let me alone for that—she thinks herself a beauty still, and lends as willing and confiding an ear to the voice of flattery as she did at sixteen. But once touch the string of vanity in such a woman’s heart, and that of caution rings in vain. But once whisper your admiration of her eyes, and she forgets her diamonds.”

“Well, Richmond, I cannot wish you success, for if you do succeed I shall pity both you and your victim, from my heart.”

“Spare your pity, if you please, sir, and explain your presentiment.”

“I intended to have done so; but I cannot now. You would only laugh at it in your present reckless mood.”

As Richmond was about to reply, the carriage stopped at a door in Union Square. The friends were shown into a gaudily furnished drawing-room, where, on an orange-colored lounge, reclined the lady of the mansion—a little, sallow, withered, peevish-looking woman, who forced, not a smile, but a smirk, as they entered, and bade them, in a small, cracked voice, be seated.

Frederic Richmond drew a chair close to her sofa, while his friend, sauntering through the spacious room, surveyed its furniture and its occupant with a look of mingled pity and surprise. There was a vulgar and glaring ostentation in both, which was revolting to his taste. The ornaments of the room were rather showy than rich; but the lady’s apparel was blazing with a profusion of the most brilliant diamonds. Her dress was a bright rose-colored silk, deepening by contrast the sallow tint of her skin. A smile of gratified vanity broke over her thin and wasted features, “like moonlight o’er a sepulchre,” as she listened to the extravagant compliments of Richmond; but the glare of light from bracelet, brooch, ferroniere and necklace seemed so bitter a mockery of the ruin it illumined, that Vernon turned away with a sigh and hurried from the house.

He had waited but a few moments in the carriage, when his friend joined him with an exulting smile on his thin, disdainful lip.

“The diamonds are mine, Vernon!” he exclaimed as he seated himself, “and next week I shall want your services as brideman.”

“You must choose some other, Frederic, it would be very painful to me to countenance so heartless a proceeding.”

“As you will, sir, I shan’t quarrel with you for your ridiculous fastidiousness; but let us talk of something else.”

The next person to whom they made their bow was an authoress, who had published, under the signature of “Malvina,” some very Sapphoish effusions, entitled “Lays of a Wounded Heart.” Perhaps my readers never heard of it.

This lady was seated in an attitude, on a cerulean-colored ottoman, with her light, very light blue eyes bent pensively on a book. Her dress—cold as was the day—was of white muslin, and her yellow hair hung in unnatural ringlets on her shoulders.

Though the gentlemen would not sit, and were evidently in haste to be gone, she insisted upon reading them an impromptu sonnet, which, she said, she had just composed, beginning with—

One would have thought that the voice must have been a sighing one to match those pleading attitudinizing eyes; but, unfortunately for the sentiment of the sonnet, it startled and astounded the hearers by its extraordinary gruffness; and they were constrained to come to the conclusion that it would require repeated blows to “break” a “heart” whence such a voice proceeded.

Richmond scribbled on a card, ere he took his leave, and handed to the lady, with a theatrical air, the following ridiculous and bathetic couplet.

“She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,” and kissed her lily hand to him in graceful gratitude as he bowed out of the room.

CHAPTER II.

Like a jem in a beautiful casket, or rather like a lovely portrait in a fitting frame, sat the young and graceful Mrs. L. in her reception-room, receiving with blushes and smiles the compliments of the day from a circle of fashionable admirers. Her hair, black and brilliant as jet, confined beneath a net of gold—her small but exquisitely moulded form arrayed in a changeable silk of a pale golden hue—a delicately wrought French cape, rivaled in whiteness by the beautiful neck it veiled—the tiniest and prettiest foot imaginable peeping from the full robe, and resting on an embroidered cushion. It was indeed a charming picture, and the two friends would gladly have passed more than the fashionable minute in gazing and admiring, had not their engagements called them elsewhere.

Their next visit was to the fashionable and beautiful Mrs. M. and her two accomplished daughters, Virginia and Grace.

Distinguished in society by their loveliness, elegance and refinement, blessed with every luxury except the best and dearest of all—the riches of the heart—these three lovely beings are victims to a restless passion for excitement, which nothing seems to allay, and their lives are passed in a succession of frivolous amusements, frittering away, from hour to hour, heart, mind and soul, until they have almost forgotten that such things are!

“With a desperate attempt to escape from the ennui of an unfurnished and unsatisfied mind,” they hurry from rout to ball, until in the din, the loud world-music of fashion and gayety, “the still, small voice of that inward spirit which is to inherit the immortal ages” is stifled and unheard.

As the two heroes of my story entered the splendid apartments, a graceful tableau caught—it was intended to catch—their eyes. The still beautiful Mrs. M. in a highly tasteful cap, and a dress of crimson velvet, was seated on a sofa, and at her feet, on a low stool, her youngest daughter, Virginia. A cloud of amber curls veiled her soft cheek and snowy shoulder as she leaned her head against her mother’s knee, with her dark blue eyes half closed, and a faint, sweet, dreamy smile flitting about her rosy mouth. While her sister, Grace, in an attitude which at once recalled her name, stood bending over a classic vase of flowers, with her dark and braided hair, pale check and soft yet brilliant black eyes presenting a striking contrast to her fairy-like sister.

A silk dress of the palest rose-color fitted closely to her beautiful form, and was terminated at the throat by a small embroidered collar of linen cambric. She was listening with downcast eyes to the ardent compliments of a handsome young Spaniard who stood by her, and was just about handing him a half-blown rose, when, seeing Vernon enter, with a well-managed start of affected surprise and pleasure, in the true spirit of coquetry, she let it fall at her feet.

Ere the Spaniard noticed the apparent accident, Richmond had sprung forward, raised the flower to his lips and hid it in his bosom, and quick as lightning the graceful girl had drawn another from the vase and placed it in the hand of the young foreigner, whose dark eyes flashed with delight as he received it. A low, musical, but somewhat affectedly prolonged laugh from Virginia betrayed her knowledge of the ruse, which none had seen but herself.

“My dear Virginia,” whispered her careful but unconscious mother, after the gentlemen had departed, “don’t laugh too often, unless there is something to laugh at. It sounds affected. The laugh is very sweet, my love, but you must not waste its sweetness. Neither of the gentlemen just gone is a desirable match, you know. And, Grace, I must beg of you not to disarrange another bouquet for the sake of a person so utterly insignificant as this Don Juan Jose del Hernandez.”

CHAPTER III.

It was eight o’clock on the evening of the same day. The ladies’ drawing-room at the Astor was brilliantly lighted, and Charles Vernon, fatigued with the social duties of the day, threw himself on a sofa beside a very beautiful woman, who welcomed him with her sweetest smile, exclaiming—

“I have left but one visit unpaid, and that must remain so, for I am weary, stupid, flat and unprofitable. I have exhausted all spirit, wit and sentiment, and have but one idea left, and that is—”

“What?” said the lady, tapping her foot impatiently.

“That I would rather be here than any where else in the universe.”

“But how can you presume to be here after the acknowledgment you have just made, that you have brought neither wit, spirit, nor sentiment to amuse me with?”

“For that very reason did I come—knowing that the magic of your presence would restore them if any thing could.”

“And whose is the name on your list that you treat with such neglect?”

“It is a pretty one; but I never saw the original. I was introduced to her on board a steamboat, by her father, last summer; but she had a thick, green veil over her face—I always had a blue horror of green veils—her form, however, was beautiful; and on the strength of that I promised her father to call upon them.”

“And what is the name?”

“Amy Arnold.”

“Amy Arnold! She is one of my pets! Go this moment and fulfill your promise! You will not regret it.”

“But I am so tired.”

“Go!”

“But I am so happy here.”

“Go!”

“Well, then, since you will be so cruel, I must quote my friend Miss Squeers, of Dotheboy’s Hall—’Artful and designing ‘Tilda! I leave you.’ ”

The lady laughed, and the gentleman, with a sublime shake of the head, departed.

CHAPTER IV.

It was a pleasant scene upon which young Vernon intruded about an hour afterward. A large, oldfashioned parlor lighted by a blazing fire, Amy Arnold, blindfolded, in the midst of a dozen little boys and girls, pursuing them with outstretched arms, her dark hair braided smoothly on her brow, her beautiful lips parted with the excitement of the chase, and her form seen to advantage in a rich silk of silver gray, plainly but very gracefully made. The merry shouts of the children had prevented her hearing the door open, and one roguish little urchin had pushed the intruder almost into her arms, ere she was aware of his presence. She laid her soft hand eagerly, but gently, on his shoulder, exclaiming, “Ah, papa! is it you I have caught? I am so glad! Untie the blinder for me, do! for I am really tired,” and she bent her beautiful head before him.

Taken by surprise, poor Vernon could only obey without a word; but in his confusion he fumbled so long at the knot that she put up her own hand to assist him. She started as she met his touch—it was not the rough clasp of Capt. Arnold that she felt. The blinder fell! and she raised to our hero’s face a pair of soft, gray eyes—Vernon thought them the loveliest he had ever seen—and there they stood for a full minute gazing on each other. She with the color deepening in her fair young cheek, and a look full of wonder, dismay and confusion—and he with an expression of mingled embarrassment and admiration.

Fortunately at that moment Capt. Arnold himself came in, and greeted his young friend with a cordial welcome to his house. While the little frolicsome Harry, who had caused all the trouble, sprang to his father’s knee, and relating the contretemps with infinite glee, set them all laughing together, so that ease was at once restored. And when, at eleven o’clock, Vernon rose to take his leave he could not help blessing in his heart the fair lady on the sofa in the Astor House drawing-room, who had insisted so imperiously upon his leaving her three hours before.

CHAPTER V.

“My dear!” said Mr. Frederic Richmond, in his softest voice, three weeks after his wedding with the widow, “You have never shown me your splendid set of diamonds since the happy day on which you promised to be mine.”

“My set of diamonds! What do you mean, Mr. Richmond,” replied the lady in a sharp tone, which grated rather harshly upon his musical ear.

“Don’t trifle with my feelings, love. I mean the set you wore last New Year’s day.”

“Oh, yes! You can see them any day at Marquand’s—I hired them for the occasion!”

“The deuce you did! And how the devil am I to settle with my creditors, I should like to know?”

“Don’t swear, Mr. Richmond, it wears upon my nerves.”

“Hang your nerves, madam!” and the disappointed fortune-hunter, striking his clenched hand upon his forehead, hurried from the room, and soon after from the country.

“I told you, you would never regret it,” said the fair belle of the Astor, as she stood, a week ago, with Charles Vernon and his beautiful Amy—no longer Amy Arnold—in the library of an elegant mansion on the banks of the Hudson—and Amy lifted her dark eyes fondly to his face and whispered with a sportive smile,

“Do you regret it, Charles?”

FROM THE PORT-FOLIO OF ONE WHO KNEW THEM.

BY HELEN BERKELY.

“The La Fayettes! The hero’s children, and the hero’s grand-children! How can I leave Paris without making their acquaintance!” said I to myself, as I remembered that, in one short month, we should turn our farewell glances on the closing gates of the gay capital, which is not inaptly designated as “le paradis des femmes.”

The following morning beheld me on my way to the hôtel of the La Fayettes. I was accompanied by Madame B——, an intimate friend of the family, whose introduction alone would ensure me a gracious reception.

“Nous voila!” said my friend, as we drove gaily through the convenient porte cochère. “La Fayette’s son, George Washington, the adopted son of your General Washington, with his wife and numerous family, occupy the same hôtel as Madame la Marquise de Lasteyrie, La Fayette’s only daughter. But, if you have no objection, we will make our first visit to Madame Lasteyrie, for I am exceedingly anxious that you should not lose an opportunity of seeing her. That you are an American will be an instant passport to her affections.”

The smiling petite concièrge replied to our inquiries, that Madame Lasteyrie was at home, and our faces reflected some of the good humored smiles which were rapidly flitting over hers at the agreeable intelligence. One touch of the pretty concièrge’s fingers to the silken bell rope suspended beside her, and before the sound it awoke had died away, a footman appeared, whose duty it was to usher us into the presence of Madame Lasteyrie. He preceded us up one flight of stairs, and then another, and another, and still another, until our limbs grew too wearied willingly to keep pace with him.

“Has Madame Lasteyrie changed her apartments?” demanded Madame B——, resting from her fatiguing ascent.

“Mais, oui, Madame, she has given up her saloon and boudoir to Madame George La Fayette’s nurse and children. Two of the little ones have been ill lately, and the noise in the other rooms disturbs them,” replied the footman, in French.

“That is exactly what I should have expected of Madame Lasteyrie,” remarked Madame B——, turning to me; “she always sacrifices her own comfort to that of every body else.”

The man overheard her, and, looking back, exclaimed, with more feeling and enthusiasm than is usual to persons in his station,

“Ah, oui, Madame, elle est un ange!”

“And because she is an angel,” said Madame B——, as with elastic steps she bounded up the last flight of stairs, (which with the entresol included brought us to the fifth story) “my friend must not feel surprised at being conducted to the neighborhood of the skies to behold one of their inhabitants.”

“Oh, I shall be content if I find she has any claim to her dwelling place.”

“Announce my name only,” said Madame B—— to the footman, as he ushered us into a small carpetless ante-chamber. “Madame de Lasteyrie is probably not prepared, at this hour, to see strangers, but I will be responsible for her receiving my friend.”

The footman disappeared, returned, and admitted us into a miniature apartment, simply, almost scantily furnished, which served General La Fayette’s estimable daughter both as drawing-room and salle à manger. Over the mantel hung a fine portrait of the renowned hero himself. But a more glowing and faithful image of him might be traced in the benign countenance of the venerable lady, who rose to receive—or rather, if I give the true term to her reception, to welcome us.

She was attired in a sober-colored dress, scrupulously neat, but of remarkably coarse texture, and to which the touch of no Parisian couturière’s fingers had given an air of fashion, while it destroyed every appearance of simplicity. Over her bosom a white cambric kerchief was plainly folded, and on her head she wore a ribbonless and bowless cap, apparently of no more costly materials. A few loose curls of her own silver hair fell about her exceedingly fair face, and gave to it an expression of softness which would have been totally destroyed by the ungraceful false hair beneath which American ladies (with false pride and falser taste) think it decorous to hide their own snow-besprinkled locks. Madame de Lasteyrie was long past her prime; but the deep lines on her mild though animated countenance told from their situation that they had not been traced by discontent, nor worn there by care. Her address, in addition to the suavity and ease peculiar to all French ladies, was characterized by an air of kind sincerity, which in a moment won the confidence and inspired the esteem of every one brought within her sphere.

She was sitting, when we entered, near a bright wood fire, in front of a couple of meanly clad and sickly looking old women, and beside a pale cheeked young one, with a babe at her breast. A little tattered urchin stood at the woman’s knee, and grasping in either hand a huge slice of dry bread, which he was so absorbed in devouring that he found it inconvenient to desist cramming his mouth at our entrance; although he looked up indeed with an expression of fear lest we had come to share his repast.

Madame de Lasteyrie rose in haste, and it might have been with some slight confusion on seeing a stranger; but Madame B——, introducing me without apology, said, “I have brought you one of my American friends.”

“That she is an American would be sufficient to render her welcome, even without her being your friend,” replied Madame de Lasteyrie, shaking hands with me warmly; “my love and admiration for your noble country form a link between me and all Americans.”

The kind old lady then begged us to excuse her a few minutes, and turned to her less elegantly attired but not less welcome guests. After giving them a few directions in a low tone and patting the head of the ragged and famished looking boy, who hardly discontinued his repast at the touch of her gentle hand, she dismissed them. They left her presence with well stored baskets, swelling bundles, and, if I might judge from their faces, full and grateful hearts, which communicate a holy joy to her own, such as all may easily experience but none readily describe.

As the door closed upon them, Madame de Lasteyrie seated herself by my side, and commenced an animated conversation principally about America and the Americans. Once or twice she alluded to her heroic father, and the high opinion he entertained of our country and government, but tears gathered in her gentle eyes as she spoke of him, and made me forbear to pursue the interesting topic. Our visit was of somewhat longer duration than etiquette would have authorized, but in the presence of one so frank and true it was impossible to prevent feeling from usurping the place of conventionalism.

After bidding her good morning we were conducted to the apartments of Madame George La Fayette. The elegant comfort of those spacious rooms formed a striking contrast to the poorly furnished little chamber we had just left. Madame La Fayette, her husband and several of her children were at home, and we passed a pleasant half hour in their society. The same frankness of manner and absence of form which I had remarked in Madame Lasteyrie prevailed amongst them. To say that they were agreeable, interesting, cultivated, and warm hearted, would be but to do them bare justice; yet, fascinating as they were, I found my thoughts ever and anon wandering to the quiet chamber at the top of the house, the famished little beggar boy and poverty-stricken women, and to the saint-like countenance and affectionate tones of the benevolent marquise as she moved about amongst her indigent visiters, calling a smile to the wan cheek, and looks of grateful affection to dimmed and sunken eyes.

“Why did you not tell me something about that good delightful Madame Lasteyrie?” said I to Madame B——, as we re-entered our carriage after bidding adieu to the La Fayettes.

“Because I wished to interest and surprise you, and I knew you would be impressed if you saw her as you have just beheld her, and as I was sure of finding her.”

“Pray, what was the meaning of the old woman and the young one, and the baby and boy?”

“Was not their meaning obvious enough? To me ‘pauper’ seemed written on every feature of their faces.”

“But are they especial protégés of Madame Lasteyrie? Do tell me something of their history.”

“About them, in particular, I know nothing. I have seen a great number of Madame Lasteyrie’s ‘mendicant family,’ as we call them, but these must be some new objects of charity.”

“She is very charitable then, is she not?”

“Her time, her fortune, and whole life, are devoted to acts of charity. She has long since given up le beau monde, and her little world, her sphere of use, and therefore of enjoyment, is in the haunts of poverty, the houses of affliction, and often the dwellings of penitent vice. Her heart overflows with love to all mankind, and with the desire to benefit all God’s creatures, from the highest to the very humblest. What her daily occupations are, I am sure you would never have discovered from her conversation, for she possesses the rare virtue of never parading her good deeds to the world; but I think you might have discovered the tone of her mind by the peculiar gentleness of her manners, the interest she took in your health, even though you were a stranger, the quickness with which she discovered any signs of indisposition, and the impressive manner in which her advice was given.”

“She surprised me very much; I was at a loss in seeking to comprehend the interest she seemed to take in me.”

“My reply will not compliment you. It was merely attributable to her habitual goodness, and desire to benefit her fellow creatures. Had you come to her in a threadbare dress, and been so pock-marked as hardly to leave a feature distinguishable, her manner would have been the same.”

“I shall not easily forget her,” I answered, “even should we never meet again; but I sincerely hope that many days will not pass before we do meet, for my thoughts will be constantly with her.”

My desire was granted; in less than a week after our visit I was hurrying through one of the narrowest, muddiest, and most obscure streets in Paris, when I perceived a lady approaching whose face was familiar, although I could not at first remember to whom it belonged. An old gray cloak was folded tightly around her. Her dress was gathered up to a height which ensured its escaping even a soupçon of mud, and her feet were protected by heavy wooden shoes. From beneath her well-worn and strangely fashioned black silk bonnet, a few soft but snowy locks were loosely curling, and these I recognized immediately; and then I quickly remembered that placid brow, those serene eyes, and the cheering smile that lingered about those lips, and knew that it could only be Madame Lasteyrie.

She recollected me the instant I pronounced her name, and paused to shake hands, exchange a few words, advise me against exposure in that keen air, and reflect upon the true American carelessness, or vanity it may be, which had prevented my guarding my feet more effectually against the cold and damp. I thanked her, and she passed on; but I had little opportunity of showing her that her words were not lost upon me, for our stay in Paris was so short that we only met once more.

It was in the afternoon, somewhat past visiting hours, though several American gentlemen had not taken their leave, when Madame Lasteyrie called upon me. Our valet had left the ante-chamber for a moment, therefore she entered unannounced. At the first glimpse of that antiquated black silk bonnet, the rusty gray cloak, and clumsy wooden walking shoes, well bespattered with Paris boue, my friends with one accord rose to bid me good afternoon. I presented Madame Lasteyrie with a chair, and then said to a couple of them as they shook hands, “Stay, stay, I wish you would not go,” accompanying my words with a glance which I intended should convey the idea that there was some especial reason for their remaining. The words and significant glance were, however, equally thrown away. Both gentlemen looked at me in surprise, gave another doubtful look at Madame la Marquise, who was quietly drying her thick over-shoes by the fire, and said, “Oh no, you have business—we will not interrupt you—good morning.” They evidently mistook La Fayette’s noble-hearted daughter for a couturière or an old bonne, or it may be some person of even less consequence. I was not more fortunate in making my wishes known to the other gentleman; he, as his companion had done, construed my words into mere civility, and seemed bent on imagining that there would be an impropriety in his resuming his seat, as I must have some private business with the good woman in the gray cloak.

They left me, and I had leisure to devote myself to Madame de Lasteyrie. Though I could not help regretting that my friends were either so obtuse, or that I could convey so little meaning by looks, which were intended to convey so much, I was probably the gainer by their absence. My kind friend was, unconsciously, induced to speak with frankness and feeling upon many subjects, on which she would not have dwelt before entire strangers. I succeeded in persuading her to give me a sketch of some of her little protégés, and the scenes of which her mode of life made her a daily witness. How much that was lovely, interesting, and touching had the alchemy of her kindly spirit extracted from sources which, to less generous hearts, presented nothing but the coarse, insipid, and even the revolting! She assured me that her visits amongst the poor afforded her indescribable happiness, and that her tastes for literature, social intercourse, and amusements, were rather sharpened than impaired thereby. What a mission on earth was hers! How blessed her life, spent in soothing the cares and alleviating the pains of suffering humanity, and in dispensing amongst the poor—what wealth cannot purchase for the rich—peace, cheerfulness and content!

It was with sincere regret that, after a long and animated conversation, I saw Madame Lasteyrie rise to bid me adieu. I was never so fortunate as to see her again. In a few weeks we left Paris, and with it many whose names are linked to a thousand pleasing associations, but few that left on my heart so sweet and lasting an impression as La Fayette’s noble-souled daughter.

THE MOTTO BEING “GOD BLESS YOU.”

BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH, AUTHOR OF “THE SINLESS CHILD,” ETC.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

“Wyandotté, or The Hutted Knoll” is, in its general features, precisely similar to the novels enumerated in the title. It is a forest subject; and, when we say this, we give assurance that the story is a good one; for Mr. Cooper has never been known to fail, either in the forest or upon the sea. The interest, as usual, has no reference to plot, of which, indeed, our novelist seems altogether regardless, or incapable, but depends, first, upon the nature of the theme; secondly, upon a Robinson-Crusoe-like detail in its management; and thirdly, upon the frequently repeated portraiture of the half-civilized Indian. In saying that the interest depends, first, upon the nature of the theme, we mean to suggest that this theme—life in the Wilderness—is one of intrinsic and universal interest, appealing to the heart of man in all phases; a theme, like that of life upon the ocean, so unfailingly omni-prevalent in its power of arresting and absorbing attention, that while success or popularity is, with such a subject, expected as a matter of course, a failure might be properly regarded as conclusive evidence of imbecility on the part of the author. The two theses in question have been handled usque ad nauseam—and this through the instinctive perception of the universal interest which appertains to them. A writer, distrustful of his powers, can scarcely do better than discuss either one or the other. A man of genius will rarely, and should never, undertake either; first, because both are excessively hackneyed; and, secondly, because the reader never fails, in forming his opinion of a book, to make discount, either wittingly or unwittingly, for that intrinsic interest which is inseparable from the subject and independent of the manner in which it is treated. Very few and very dull indeed are those who do not instantaneously perceive the distinction; and thus there are two great classes of fictions,—a popular and widely circulated class, read with pleasure, but without admiration—in which the author is lost or forgotten; or remembered, if at all, with something very nearly akin to contempt; and then, a class not so popular, nor so widely diffused, in which, at every paragraph, arises a distinctive and highly pleasurable interest, springing from our perception and appreciation of the skill employed, of the genius evinced in the composition. After perusal of the one class, we think solely of the book—after reading the other, chiefly of the author. The former class leads to popularity—the latter to fame. In the former case, the books sometimes live, while the authors usually die; in the latter, even when the works perish, the man survives. Among American writers of the less generally circulated, but more worthy and more artistical fictions, we may mention Mr. Brockden Brown, Mr. John Neal, Mr. Simms, Mr. Hawthorne; at the head of the more popular division we may place Mr. Cooper.

“The Hutted Knoll,” without pretending to detail facts, gives a narrative of fictitious events, similar, in nearly all respects, to occurrences which actually happened during the opening scenes of the Revolution, and at other epochs of our history. It pictures the dangers, difficulties, and distresses of a large family, living, completely insulated, in the forest. The tale commences with a description of the “region which lies in the angle formed by the junction of the Mohawk with the Hudson, extending as far south as the line of Pennsylvania, and west to the verge of that vast rolling plain which composes Western New York”—a region of which the novelist has already frequently written, and the whole of which, with a trivial exception, was a wilderness before the Revolution. Within this district, and on a creek running into the Unadilla, a certain Captain Willoughby purchases an estate, or “patent,” and there retires, with his family and dependents, to pass the close of his life in agricultural pursuits. He has been an officer in the British army, but, after serving many years, has sold his commission, and purchased one for his only son, Robert, who alone does not accompany the party into the forest. This party consists of the captain himself; his wife; his daughter, Beulah; an adopted daughter, Maud Meredith; an invalid sergeant, Joyce, who had served under the captain; a Presbyterian preacher, Mr. Woods; a Scotch mason, Jamie Allen; an Irish laborer, Michael O’Hearn; a Connecticut man, Joel Strides; four negroes, Old Plin and Young Plin, Big Smash and Little Smash; eight axe-men; a house-carpenter; a mill-wright, &c., &c. Besides these, a Tuscarora Indian called Nick, or Wyandotté, accompanies the expedition. This Indian, who figures largely in the story, and gives it its title, may be considered as the principal character—the one chiefly elaborated. He is an outcast from his tribe, has been known to Captain Willoughby for thirty years, and is a compound of all the good and bad qualities which make up the character of the half-civilized Indian. He does not remain with the settlers; but appears and re-appears at intervals upon the scene.

Nearly the whole of the first volume is occupied with a detailed account of the estate purchased, (which is termed “The Hutted Knoll” from a natural mound upon which the principal house is built) and of the progressive arrangements and improvements. Toward the close of the volume the Revolution commences; and the party at the “Knoll” are besieged by a band of savages and “rebels,” with whom an understanding exists, on the part of Joel Strides, the Yankee. This traitor, instigated by the hope of possessing Captain Willoughby’s estate, should it be confiscated, brings about a series of defections from the party of the settlers, and finally, deserting himself, reduces the whole number to six or seven, capable of bearing arms. Captain Willoughby resolves, however, to defend his post. His son, at this juncture, pays him a clandestine visit, and, endeavoring to reconnoitre the position of the Indians, is made captive. The captain, in an attempt at rescue, is murdered by Wyandotté, whose vindictive passions had been aroused by ill-timed allusions, on the part of Willoughby, to floggings previously inflicted, by his orders, upon the Indian. Wyandotté, however, having satisfied his personal vengeance, is still the ally of the settlers. He guides Maud, who is beloved by Robert, to the hut in which the latter is confined, and effects his escape. Aroused by this escape, the Indians precipitate their attack upon the Knoll, which, through the previous treachery of Strides in ill-hanging a gate, is immediately carried. Mrs. Willoughby, Beulah, and others of the party, are killed. Maud is secreted and thus saved by Wyandotté. At the last moment, when all is apparently lost, a reinforcement appears, under command of Evert Beekman, the husband of Beulah; and the completion of the massacre is prevented. Woods, the preacher, had left the Knoll, and made his way through the enemy, to inform Beekman of the dilemma of his friends. Maud and Robert Willoughby are, of course, happily married. The concluding scene of the novel shows us Wyandotté repenting the murder of Willoughby, and converted to Christianity through the agency of Woods.

It will be at once seen that there is nothing original in this story. On the contrary, it is even excessively commonplace. The lover, for example, rescued from captivity by the mistress; the Knoll carried through the treachery of an inmate; and the salvation of the besieged, at the very last moment, by a reinforcement arriving, in consequence of a message borne to a friend by one of the besieged, without the cognizance of the others; these, we say, are incidents which have been the common property of every novelist since the invention of letters. And as for plot, there has been no attempt at any thing of the kind. The tale is a mere succession of events, scarcely any one of which has any necessary dependence upon any one other. Plot, however, is, at best, an artificial effect, requiring, like music, not only a natural bias, but long cultivation of taste for its full appreciation; some of the finest narratives in the world—“Gil-Blas” and “Robinson Crusoe,” for example—have been written without its employment; and “The Hutted Knoll,” like all the sea and forest novels of Cooper, has been made deeply interesting, although depending upon this peculiar source of interest not at all. Thus the absence of plot can never be critically regarded as a defect; although its judicious use, in all cases aiding and in no case injuring other effects, must be regarded as of a very high order of merit.

There are one or two points, however, in the mere conduct of the story now before us, which may, perhaps, be considered as defective. For instance, there is too much obviousness in all that appertains to the hanging of the large gate. In more than a dozen instances, Mrs. Willoughby is made to allude to the delay in the hanging; so that the reader is too positively and pointedly forced to perceive that this delay is to result in the capture of the Knoll. As we are never in doubt of the fact, we feel diminished interest when it actually happens. A single vague allusion, well managed, would have been in the true artistical spirit.

Again; we see too plainly, from the first, that Beekman is to marry Beulah, and that Robert Willoughby is to marry Maud. The killing of Beulah, of Mrs. Willoughby, and Jamie Allen, produces, too, a painful impression which does not properly appertain to the right fiction. Their deaths affect us as revolting and supererogatory; since the purposes of the story are not thereby furthered in any regard. To Willoughby’s murder, however distressing, the reader makes no similar objection; merely because in his decease is fulfilled a species of poetical justice. We may observe here, nevertheless, that his repeated references to his flogging the Indian seem unnatural, because we have otherwise no reason to think him a fool, or a madman, and these references, under the circumstances, are absolutely insensate. We object, also, to the manner in which the general interest is dragged out, or suspended. The besieging party are kept before the Knoll so long, while so little is done, and so many opportunities of action are lost, that the reader takes it for granted that nothing of consequence will occur—that the besieged will be finally delivered. He gets so accustomed to the presence of danger that its excitement, at length, departs. The action is not sufficiently rapid. There is too much procrastination. There is too much mere talk for talk’s sake. The interminable discussions between Woods and Captain Willoughby are, perhaps, the worst feature of the book, for they have not even the merit of referring to the matters on hand. In general, there is quite too much colloquy for the purpose of manifesting character, and too little for the explanation of motive. The characters of the drama would have been better made out by action; while the motives to action, the reasons for the different courses of conduct adopted by the dramatis personæ, might have been made to proceed more satisfactorily from their own mouths, in casual conversations, than from that of the author in person. To conclude our remarks upon the head of ill-conduct in the story, we may mention occasional incidents of the merest melodramatic absurdity: as, for example, at page 156, of the second volume, where “Willoughby had an arm round the waist of Maud, and bore her forward with a rapidity to which her own strength was entirely unequal.” We may be permitted to doubt whether a young lady of sound health and limbs, exists, within the limits of Christendom, who could not run faster, on her own proper feet, for any considerable distance, than she could be carried upon one arm of either the Cretan Milo or of the Hercules Farnese.

On the other hand, it would be easy to designate many particulars which are admirably handled. The love of Maud Meredith for Robert Willoughby is painted with exquisite skill and truth. The incident of the tress of hair and box is naturally and effectively conceived. A fine collateral interest is thrown over the whole narrative by the connection of the theme with that of the Revolution; and, especially, there is an excellent dramatic point, at page 124 of the second volume, where Wyandotté, remembering the stripes inflicted upon him by Captain Willoughby, is about to betray him to his foes, when his purpose is arrested by a casual glimpse, through the forest, of the hut which contains Mrs. Willoughby, who had preserved the life of the Indian, by inoculation for the small-pox.

In the depicting of character, Mr. Cooper has been unusually successful in “Wyandotté.” One or two of his personages, to be sure, must be regarded as little worth. Robert Willoughby, like most novel heroes, is a nobody; that is to say, there is nothing about him which may be looked upon as distinctive. Perhaps he is rather silly than otherwise; as, for instance, when he confuses all his father’s arrangements for his concealment, and bursts into the room before Strides—afterward insisting upon accompanying that person to the Indian encampment, without any possible or impossible object. Woods, the parson, is a sad bore, upon the Dominie Sampson plan, and is, moreover, caricatured. Of Captain Willoughby we have already spoken—he is too often on stilts. Evert Beekman and Beulah are merely episodical. Joyce is nothing in the world but Corporal Trim—or, rather, Corporal Trim and water. Jamie Allen, with his prate about Catholicism, is insufferable. But Mrs. Willoughby, the humble, shrinking, womanly wife, whose whole existence centres in her affections, is worthy of Mr. Cooper. Maud Meredith is still better. In fact, we know no female portraiture, even in Scott, which surpasses her; and yet the world has been given to understand, by the enemies of the novelist, that he is incapable of depicting a woman. Joel Strides will be recognized by all who are conversant with his general prototypes of Connecticut. Michael O’Hearn, the County Leitrim man, is an Irishman all over, and his portraiture abounds in humor; as, for example, at page 31, of the first volume, where he has a difficulty with a skiff, not being able to account for its revolving upon its own axis, instead of moving forward! or, at page 132, where, during divine service, to exclude at least a portion of the heretical doctrine, he stops one of his ears with his thumb; or, at page 195, where a passage occurs so much to our purpose that we will be pardoned for quoting it in full. Captain Willoughby is drawing his son up through a window, from his enemies below. The assistants, placed at a distance from this window to avoid observation from without, are ignorant of what burthen is at the end of the rope:

“The men did as ordered, raising their load from the ground a foot or two at a time. In this manner the burthen approached, yard after yard, until it was evidently drawing near the window.

“ ‘It’s the captain hoisting up the big baste of a hog, for provisioning the hoose again a saige,’ whispered Mike to the negroes, who grinned as they tugged; ‘and, when the craitur squails, see to it, that ye do not squail yourselves.’

“At that moment, the head and shoulders of a man appeared at the window. Mike let go the rope, seized a chair, and was about to knock the intruder upon the head; but the captain arrested the blow.

“ ‘It’s one o’ the vagabone Injins that has undermined the hog and come up in its stead,’ roared Mike.

“ ‘It’s my son,’ said the captain; ‘see that you are silent and secret.’ ”

The negroes are, without exception, admirably drawn. The Indian, Wyandotté, however, is the great feature of the book, and is, in every respect, equal to the previous Indian creations of the author of “The Pioneer.” Indeed, we think this “forest gentleman” superior to the other noted heroes of his kind—the heroes which have been immortalized by our novelist. His keen sense of the distinction, in his own character, between the chief, Wyandotté, and the drunken vagabond, Sassy Nick; his chivalrous delicacy toward Maud, in never disclosing to her that knowledge of her real feelings toward Robert Willoughby, which his own Indian intuition had discovered; his enduring animosity toward Captain Willoughby, softened, and for thirty years delayed, through his gratitude to the wife; and then, the vengeance consummated, his pity for that wife conflicting with his exultation at the deed—these, we say, are all traits of a lofty excellence indeed. Perhaps the most effective passage in the book, and that which, most distinctively, brings out the character of the Tuscarora, is to be found at pages 50, 51, 52 and 53 of the second volume, where, for some trivial misdemeanor, the captain threatens to make use of the whip. The manner in which the Indian harps upon the threat, returning to it again and again, in every variety of phrase, forms one of the finest pieces of mere character-painting with which we have any acquaintance.

The most obvious and most unaccountable faults of “The Hutted Knoll,” are those which appertain to the style—to the mere grammatical construction for,—in other and more important particulars of style, Mr. Cooper, of late days, has made a very manifest improvement. His sentences, however, are arranged with an awkwardness so remarkable as to be matter of absolute astonishment, when we consider the education of the author, and his long and continual practice with the pen. In minute descriptions of localities, any verbal inaccuracy, or confusion, becomes a source of vexation and misunderstanding, detracting very much from the pleasure of perusal; and in these inaccuracies “Wyandotté” abounds. Although, for instance, we carefully read and re-read that portion of the narrative which details the situation of the Knoll, and the construction of the buildings and walls about it, we were forced to proceed with the story without any exact or definite impressions upon the subject. Similar difficulties, from similar causes, occur passim throughout the book. For example: at page 41, vol. I.:

“The Indian gazed at the house, with that fierce intentness which sometimes glared, in a manner that had got to be, in its ordinary aspects, dull and besotted.” This it is utterly impossible to comprehend. We presume, however, the intention is to say that although the Indian’s ordinary manner (of gazing) had “got to be” dull and besotted, he occasionally gazed with an intentness that glared, and that he did so in the instance in question. The “got to be” is atrocious—the whole sentence no less so.

Here, at page 9, vol. I., is something excessively vague: “Of the latter character is the face of most of that region which lies in the angle formed by the junction of the Mohawk with the Hudson,” &c. &c. The Mohawk, joining the Hudson, forms two angles, of course,—an acute and an obtuse one; and, without further explanation, it is difficult to say which is intended.

At page 55, vol. I., we read:—“The captain, owing to his English education, had avoided straight lines, and formal paths; giving to the little spot the improvement on nature which is a consequence of embellishing her works without destroying them. On each side of this lawn was an orchard, thrifty and young, and which were already beginning to show signs of putting forth their blossoms.” Here we are tautologically informed that improvement is a consequence of embellishment, and supererogatorily told that the rule holds good only where the embellishment is not accompanied by destruction. Upon the “each orchard were” it is needless to comment.

At page 30, vol. I., is something similar, where Strides is represented as “never doing any thing that required a particle more than the exertion and strength that were absolutely necessary to effect his object.” Did Mr. C. ever hear of any labor that required more exertion than was necessary? He means to say that Strides exerted himself no farther than was necessary—that’s all.

At page 59, vol. I., we find this sentence—“He was advancing by the only road that was ever traveled by the stranger as he approached the Hut; or, he came up the valley.” This is merely a vagueness of speech. “Or” is intended to imply “that is to say.” The whole would be clearer thus—“He was advancing by the valley—the only road traveled by a stranger approaching the Hut.” We have here sixteen words, instead of Mr. Cooper’s twenty-five.

At page 8, vol. II., is an unpardonable awkwardness, although an awkwardness strictly grammatical. “I was a favorite, I believe, with, certainly was much petted by, both.” Upon this we need make no further observation. It speaks for itself.

We are aware, however, that there is a certain air of unfairness, in thus quoting detached passages, for animadversion of this kind; for, however strictly at random our quotations may really be, we have, of course, no means of proving the fact to our readers; and there are no authors, from whose works individual inaccurate sentences may not be culled. But we mean to say that Mr. Cooper, no doubt through haste or neglect, is remarkably and especially inaccurate, as a general rule; and, by way of demonstrating this assertion, we will dismiss our extracts at random, and discuss some entire page of his composition. More than this: we will endeavor to select that particular page upon which it might naturally be supposed he would bestow the most careful attention. The reader will say at once—“Let this be his first page—the first page of his Preface.” This page, then, shall be taken of course.

“The history of the borders is filled with legends of the sufferings of isolated families, during the troubled scenes of colonial warfare. Those which we now offer to the reader, are distinctive in many of their leading facts, if not rigidly true in the details. The first alone is necessary to the legitimate objects of fiction.”

“Abounds with legends,” would be better than “is filled with legends;” for it is clear that if the history were filled with legends, it would be all legend and no history. The word “of,” too, occurs, in the first sentence, with an unpleasant frequency. The “those” commencing the second sentence, grammatically refers to the noun “scenes,” immediately preceding, but is intended for “legends.” The adjective “distinctive” is vaguely and altogether improperly employed. Mr. C. we believe means to say, merely, that although the details of his legends may not be strictly true, facts similar to his leading ones have actually occurred. By use of the word “distinctive,” however, he has contrived to convey a meaning nearly converse. In saying that his legend is “distinctive” in many of the leading facts, he has said what he, clearly, did not wish to say—viz.: that his legend contained facts which distinguished it from all other legends—in other words, facts never before discussed in other legends, and belonging peculiarly to his own. That Mr. C. did mean what we suppose, is rendered evident by the third sentence—“The first alone is necessary to the legitimate objects of fiction.” This third sentence itself, however, is very badly constructed. “The first” can refer, grammatically, only to “facts;” but no such reference is intended. If we ask the question—what is meant by “the first?”—what “alone is necessary to the legitimate objects of fiction?”—the natural reply is, “that facts similar to the leading ones have actually happened.” This circumstance is alone to be cared for—this consideration “alone is necessary to the legitimate objects of fiction.”

“One of the misfortunes of a nation is to hear nothing besides its own praises.” This is the fourth sentence, and is by no means lucid. The design is to say that individuals composing a nation, and living altogether within the national bounds, hear from each other only praises of the nation, and that this is a misfortune to the individuals, since it misleads them in regard to the actual condition of the nation. Here it will be seen that, to convey the intended idea, we have been forced to make distinction between the nation and its individual members; for it is evident that a nation is considered as such only in reference to other nations; and thus, as a nation, it hears very much “besides its own praises;” that is to say, it hears the detractions of other rival nations. In endeavoring to compel his meaning within the compass of a brief sentence, Mr. Cooper has completely sacrificed its intelligibility.

The fifth sentence runs thus:—“Although the American Revolution was probably as just an effort as was ever made by a people to resist the first inroads of oppression, the cause had its evil aspects, as well as all other human struggles.”

The American Revolution is here improperly called an “effort.” The effort was the cause, of which the Revolution was the result. A rebellion is an “effort” to effect a revolution. An “inroad of oppression” involves an untrue metaphor; for “inroad” appertains to aggression, to attack, to active assault. “The cause had its evil aspects, as well as all other human struggles,” implies that the cause had not only its evil aspects, but had, also, all other human struggles. If the words must be retained at all, they should be thus arranged—“The cause like [or as well as] all other human struggles, had its evil aspects;” or better thus—“The cause had its evil aspect, as have all human struggles.” “Other” is superfluous.

The sixth sentence is thus written:—“We have been so much accustomed to hear every thing extolled, of late years, that could be dragged into the remotest connection with that great event, and the principles which led to it, that there is danger of overlooking truth in a pseudo patriotism.” The “of late years,” here, should follow the “accustomed,” or precede the “We have been;” and the Greek “pseudo” is objectionable, since its exact equivalent is to be found in the English “false.” “Spurious” would be better, perhaps, than either.

Inadvertences such as these sadly disfigure the style of “The Hutted Knoll;” and every true friend of its author must regret his inattention to the minor morals of the Muse. But these “minor morals,” it may be said, are trifles at best. Perhaps so. At all events, we should never have thought of dwelling so pertinaciously upon the unessential demerits of “Wyandotté,” could we have discovered any more momentous upon which to comment.

Our Book Table.—The extended notice of Mr. Cooper’s last novel crowds the notices of other works into a very small space, and compels us to defer several reviews prepared for the number.

The Poems of Samuel Rogers, with numerous illustrations, just issued by Lea & Blanchard, will be noticed in full in the December number.

“Foot Prints,” a neat little volume of fugitive poems, has been laid upon our table by John Penington. These poems originally appeared in the “Banner of the Cross,” and are for the most part upon religious and patriotic subjects.

“Dream of a Day and Other Poems,” by James G. Percival: Mark U. Newman, Broadway, New York. The review of this volume is deferred.

“Jay’s Family Prayers” are issued in a new edition by Lindsay & Blackiston, Philadelphia. This is an admirable work, and, as an assistant in family devotion, there is none superior.

Lea & Blanchard have issued a new edition of Youatt on the Horse, with additional dissertations by Skinner. We need only say that this is a text-book among horsemen. Every man who owns a horse should have one.

Carey & Hurt announce for the holidays The Literary Souvenir: A Christmas and New Year’s offering for 1844, with ten beautifully engraved plates, by Cheney and others; after pictures by Sully, Chalon, and Doughty. Elegantly printed, and splendidly bound in various colors and richly gilt.

Also, The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore. The only complete edition. Edited by Mr. Moore. With autobiographical prefaces. The whole complete in one pocket volume, with beautiful engraved portrait and title. Price $3.50, magnificently bound. Containing all that is in the ten volumes, London edition.

Also, Gems of the Modern Poets, with a biographical notice of each, by Mrs. S. C. Hall.

The Harpers appear to be absorbed in the cheap publication trade, and issue each month a dozen or more.

Winchester has sent us Fireside Recollections and The Young Sculptor, by Mrs. Ellis. Also, One Hundred Romances of Real Life, by Leigh Hunt, printed from good type, in the usual style of the New World publications.

“Marion’s Men” is the title of a fine American novel just issued by H. J. Rockafellar, 98 Chesnut Street, at the low price of a shilling each, or ten copies for one dollar.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

Some illustrations have been enhanced to be more legible.

A Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience.

[The end of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXIII, No. 5, November 1843 by George Rex Graham (editor)]